


Merlin Myrddin The Muralist

by deanpendragon



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur-centric, Coffee Shops, Getting Together, M/M, Painting, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-01-24 20:28:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 63,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1616048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deanpendragon/pseuds/deanpendragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur Pendragon's life has been a slow downward spiral ever since he grew sick of working for his father at Pendragon Publishing. His job is boring, he's pushing people away, he's drinking too much and to top it all off, the coffee shop he's been going to for a decade is closing. But perhaps the eccentric young brunet at his new routine coffee place, with his shimmery blue eyes and paint-streaked face, is just the person to kickstart Arthur's humdrum life. As it turns out, Merlin's got baggage of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There is this _ticking_.

There is this _ticking_ , and Arthur can’t help but count to it. He has no idea why, and now his head feels like it’s about to explode all over his desk. At this point, he thinks it wouldn’t be so much of a bad thing. So he attempts to drown out the ticking by keeping his office door open and listening to the dull murmur of employees in their cubicles. It’s quite relaxing, he comes to find, hearing the dull, occasional thump of a stapler and the soft click of a pen being uncapped. The constant ringing of phones is less tranquil, but that’s a sacrifice Arthur’s willing to make. Anything’s better than that ticking. 

He’s sitting silently in his chair trying to develop X-ray vision and peer through the nearly opaque glass wall of his office in front of him when his father waltzes in. Arthur almost whines when he shuts the door behind him.

“What on earth are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Arthur says, swiveling in his chair to face Uther.

“I can see that.” He doesn’t sound happy.

“I meant working.”

“Right. And what are you working on?”

Arthur looks down at his desk, void of anything but a few scattered paperclips he was trying to make a chain out of.

Arthur answers his question with a question, “Do you hear that ticking?”

Uther ignores him. He stares him down for a bit before softening his gaze, the sight of it making Arthur furrow his brow. His father pulls one of the chairs in front of Arthur’s desk (reserved for clients) closer and sits down in it. He runs his palms down the front of his white dress shirt and straightens his plain black tie before speaking.

“I’m worried about you.”

Arthur’s floored and avoids his father’s (creepily sympathetic) looks. Instead, he focuses in on a shallow scratch on his glass desk next to where his laptop sits. How’d that get there? The ticking also returns and fills the silence. Arthur’s at least grateful for that.

“Arthur,” Uther says, slapping his hand gently on the arm of his chair. “Has something happened?”

“No,” Arthur replies immediately.

Uther sighs and leans back. He closes his eyes and rubs a few fingers above his right eyebrow, presumably thinking of what to say next. Arthur wants to laugh; Uther’s never been good at…whatever this is. One-on-one talks.

“Father, really,” Arthur supplies. Uther’s hand drops and he looks back at him. “I’m alright. Just a little scatterbrained today.”

“Today?”

“This month.”

“That’s…more accurate.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur insists. “I’ll get back on top of things.”

Uther seems to buy it. “Good, good,” he says back and stands up. Once again, he smooths down his shirt and straightens his tie. He runs one hand through his short, grey hair and sighs again. If Arthur had to pick one sound he’s sure he’s heard more than any other in his entire life, it’d be that. He tries not to glare at Uther’s back as he walks to the door of Arthur’s office. He’s left the chair where he moved it, making it so Arthur’s got to get up and move it back himself.

Uther opens the door and once again, the noises of the office flood back in. Arthur never thought he’d be relieved to hear the sound of the shredder. Before his father leaves, he turns back and says lowly, “I’m beginning to think this isn’t your dream occupation anymore.”

He leaves without waiting for a reply and shuts the door quietly after himself.

“Understatement of the century,” Arthur mumbles to himself.

Tick, tick, tick. 

Fuck.

* * *

  
He reflects guiltily on him and his father’s conversation (if you could call it that; Arthur doesn’t think he’s had a real conversation with him—or at least one that’s not about business—for at least a year now) for the rest of the day.

Also, apparently him leaving his office door open makes people believe they can walk in at any time. Enter Mithian, head of the Human Resources department, who would’ve just walked in anyway had the door been shut.

She strides over, wearing one of her many pantsuits, and flops ungracefully down on the tiny couch that sits against the back wall. At least she leaves the door open, Arthur thinks bitterly.

She heaves out a long, dramatic groan.

“…What’s up?” Arthur’s forced to ask, swiveling around (damn, he loves this chair. It’s probably the only part of his job he enjoys anymore) to face her.

“I need a vacation.”

“You and me both.”

“Let’s go somewhere tropical,” she muses. “Come on, we’ll rent a bungalow and there’ll be bars inside the pool and we can walk around everywhere half-naked and buzzed.”

“My two favorite things to be.”

“Exactly,” she kicks her legs up in front of her on the couch and crosses them at the ankles. She looks so comfortable that it makes Arthur tired. “I saw the boss come in earlier. What’s that about?”

“How did you—you work on the bottom floor.”

“I know, but you guys hired a new intern—Sefa is her name—and she works up here.”

“Okay?”

“She’s really cute.”

“I’ve never met her. I didn’t even know we were hiring interns.” 

“That’s because you never leave your office. Just the other day Leon was complaining about how he never sees you in the complex cafeteria anymore.”

Arthur doesn’t know what to say. 

“So what’d your father want?” she asks again.

Arthur thinks it’s hardly Mithian’s business. But that’s what friends do, right? Share things with each other? Arthur’s never been good at that and Mithian knows it. He knows she doesn’t expect much. He rubs his palms over his slacks because he needs something to do with his hands.

“Just…hounding me about some work.”

“Nothing new there, then.” Mithian inspects the strand of brown hair as she twirls it around her finger distractedly. She then turns to look at Arthur.

“How do you feel?”

“I hardly feel anything,” Arthur doesn’t say.

Instead, he answers, “I’m fine. Heading out soon.”

Mithian gets the cue and abandons his couch. “Fine, fine, I’m out of here.”

“See you later, Mithian.”

“ _Au revoir_ , Arthur.” At his questioning look she leans back in his doorway to add, “Sefa studied abroad in France her second year of uni. I think I’m catching on. I’m totally in there, if you know what I mean.”

“Please, _don’t_ keep me posted.”

“Whatever. You love it.”

“ _Au revoir_ , Mithian.” 

At this, she beams and heads off. Arthur grins down at his desk and starts to pack up.

* * *

  
Arthur figures he can justify his poor attitude and apathy towards his work recently if he actually gets something done tonight (and if it helps dull his father’s disappointed tone circling in his head, then so be it). So he gathers his things, tosses his bag in the passenger seat of his car and heads to his usual coffeehouse. The drive is familiar and short and he even gets to watch the sun go down through his windshield. It’s amazingly anticlimactic.

He orders two black coffees and sets up shop at his favorite table in the corner of the room. Smooth jazz pumps quietly from the speakers in the ceiling and Arthur settles in comfortably. The sound of his typing and the occasional customer voicing their order to the familiar-but-still-unknown barista are calming, and he falls into his work surprisingly easily.

He’s bored out of his skull—but at least he’s gotten some actual work done—when he hears his name being called from somewhere behind the counter of the shop.

“Pendragon Publishing,” the shop owner’s greeting him with. Arthur’s not actually sure that Percival knows his first name, or anything about him besides where he works for that matter. But he’s pleasant enough, and always gives him extra whip cream when he orders lattes.

“Percival,” Arthur replies, grateful for the distraction.

“Working late?”

“Unfortunately.”

Percival pulls out the chair adjacent from him and sits down; something he’s never done before. He bulky upper body looms over the tiny wooden table and Arthur has a fleeting thought about clown cars.

“I suppose you saw the sign outside.”

Arthur shakes his head before taking the remaining gulp from one of his coffees.

“The shop is closing next week.”

“What?” Arthur sputters. “Wait, no. Why?”

Percival scratches behind his ear and looks down at the table, forlorn. “I’m following my brother to the States.”

“You don’t look very happy about it.”

“I am. I’m just,” he takes a second to give the room a once-over, “It’s just sad to see it go. I’ve worked here for ten years, you know.”

Arthur’s frowning. “It’s a big change,” he says, referring to the move.

“I know,” Percival’s grinning now. “But I could use a change.”

“Couldn’t we all,” Arthur replies, more to himself than the man across from him.

“We’ll be here until late next week. I trust I’ll see you before then?”

“Count on it,” Arthur answers.

Percival smiles at him again and gets up to leave, taking the empty coffee mug with him and disappearing behind the counter. Arthur stares at his laptop screen blankly, no longer feeling the need to finish the document he was in the middle of.

He leaves the other mug on his table when he leaves. It’s only half-drank.  


* * *

  
The extra work he’d done does its part to keep Arthur from feeling like a complete disappointment to his father after the events of earlier in the day. He lies in the dark in his giant bed in his giant house and it’s nothing new that he feels so alone.

Sure, he could go to a bar and try and pull, but what’s the point?

Two years ago, his head would’ve spun right off his neck if someone had said that to him. It’s not like he doesn’t get laid—his most recent affair was with the daughter of some important person in the publishing business that Uther insisted he charm. She was a model and Arthur could tell, though it’s not like that tempted him too much (in fact, he would’ve much rather gone home with one of the waiters at the banquet where they’d met instead). She’d had a few drinks and Arthur, though he hadn’t had quite as much, was up for it by the end of the night. He’d offered her a ride home and it just happened, as these things mostly do.

The sex was fast and terrible but she moaned anyway, curving her body into the light from the lamp on his bedside table. Afterward, she’d dragged her fingers in patterns over Arthur’s chest and regaled him with information about herself; what her hometown looked like, a story or two from secondary school, why she got into modeling. Arthur listened politely and she seemed charmed with his (admittedly short) responses, but he couldn’t bring himself to do the same.

So instead of all this he thinks about the closing of his favorite coffee place. And also the fact that now he has to find a new one. The thought of changing his routine makes his stomach swirl stressfully and he turns onto his side to face his dresser. He feels like he’s aged fifty years in the last two.

“When did I become eighty years old?” he wonders aloud.

His dresser says nothing. 

He lies there in the darkness, foreboding thoughts biting into his brain like bedbugs until he eventually falls asleep.  


* * *

  
Arthur savors every sip of the coffee from Percival’s because he knows it’s going to be gone soon. He doesn’t even care that he burns his tongue and spends the rest of the day unconsciously rubbing his engorged taste buds against the roof of his mouth. Mithian even brings him a couple cups throughout the first part of the week after she drags the bad news out of him.

Arthur notices that Uther has begun to keep a closer eye on him, stopping by his office a couple times a day. He informs him about unimportant updates on the company or minuscule changes in procedure that Arthur could’ve read in the memos that are sent around (if he read the memos, that is). He tries so hard to make himself look busy in case his father stops by that he actually _becomes_ busy; organizing meetings with potential clients and reading the fifty-or-so emails he’s been ignoring. He works straight through lunch and doesn’t even notice.

All of this caring-about-his-job nonsense isn’t something that will last, and he knows that.

But it’s enough for now, and it’s making his father happy. So he tries his best.  


* * *

  
At the end of the week, he drags himself to Percival’s for the last time with heavy feet. 

The lobby that used to look tiny now appears expansive; the walls are bare where they used to be covered with small, wooden-framed pictures of landscapes from all over the world. Most of the tables are missing as well and Arthur can’t help but frown. Percival chats to him about the town he’ll be moving to as he signs off on some last-minute paperwork. Arthur zones in and out, having trouble imagining such a profound change happening in his own life. Even a hypothetical one refuses to float into so much as the peripheral of his mind’s eye. 

He orders a latte and a black coffee and drinks them as slowly as he can without letting them go cold. He even helps Percival move a few more tables into the storage room (that Arthur, even in his entire decade of coming here, had no idea it existed until this afternoon). Percival claps him on the back as he leaves and Arthur wishes him the best.

He pulls out of the car park slowly and glances one more time at the shop in the rearview mirror, completely crestfallen.  


* * *

  
Arthur doesn’t drink coffee for the next two weeks. He falls asleep at his desk five times and every single time he wakes up he feels guiltier than the last. Sure, he could just get coffee from the cafeteria on the main level, but there are _people_ down there. He really can’t handle idle chat about the weather or work (the thought of that one makes him cringe) or even football. 

So he isolates himself in his office, not like it surprises anyone. He’s just happy that Uther hadn’t walked in on him taking one of his spontaneous naps. Arthur would have caught hell and, with the mood he’s in, he probably would’ve thrown it right back at him. On Tuesday he snaps at his secretary when she reminds him of a client he has to meet and then has to buy her flowers to make up for it. She takes them excitedly and Arthur really hopes she didn’t get the wrong idea.

“Drink this, you loon,” Mithian insists, slamming a paper cup on his desk. Steam rises lazily from the hot, brown liquid and Arthur thinks it kind of looks like a dragon.

“Ha, Pendragon,” he mumbles, grinding the heels of his palms into his eyes.

“Yes. That is your name. And it’s where we work. God, you’re like, unplugged or something. Drink the coffee.”

“What’s in it?”

“Nothing.”

“Good.”

Arthur sips at it carefully. It takes like shit left out in the sun, but at least it’s caffeine. 

“Need to find a new coffee place,” Arthur tells Mithian.

She says nothing because she has left and apparently shut Arthur’s door behind her.

Tick, tick, tick.

“Shut up,” he groans and takes a brave gulp of the shit coffee.  


* * *

  
The fluorescent lights in Monmouth Coffee on Rose street are too white and Arthur can’t read the handwritten chalkboard menu. He sticks around for a bit and tries to get used to it, and the coffee’s actually quite good, but he can’t bring himself to go back again after he’s left. The Workshop Coffee a few streets over looks neat in terms of decoration, but there are no nooks that he could hide in with his laptop and escape all human interaction. Also, the coffee is just a little bit better than the coffee at work. He tries a couple more places too, but their locations aren’t exactly convenient and he manages to find deal-breaking flaws within the first three minutes of being inside. 

While driving back to work (his lunch break’s almost over), he passes another coffee shop. He’s passed it plenty of times on his route but has never really looked at it until now; it’s nuzzled quietly between a tattoo parlor and a resale bookstore. Arthur wouldn’t have even known it was a coffee place if it weren’t for the mug of coffee replacing the ‘u’ in it’s name; _Guinevere’s_. He parks in a space directly in front of it and walks in, prepared to be let down.

He’s not.

The floor is lined with smooth, brown clay bricks from one end of the rectangular room to the other. Soft white lights with different, vibrant colored shades hang unobtrusively over each high-top table. A few chairs are also pulled up to the counter to the right of the register for customers to sit at for conversation or constant, convenient service. Of course, Arthur’s going to sit at the table furthest from there, but it’s a considerate thought.

So far, so good.

Arthur appreciates the beautiful brick wall, the bottom of it hidden by the line of machines and blenders behind the till. 

“Are you alright?”

Arthur looks down to where the voice came from. A man is nearly sprawled out on the floor in front of the fireplace, papers scattered about in front of him. He looks up at Arthur, blue eyes lit up by the natural light from the windows on the front wall.

“You look a bit mental just standing in the doorway.”

Arthur hadn’t even noticed. He walks a bit further into the shop, giving the young man a wary look. Is laying across the floor protocol at this place? Probably not.

“That’s better. But only just.”

“…Right,” Arthur answers, unsure.

“Merlin! What did I say about talking to customers?”

The brunet scrambles up from the floor and launches himself into one of the two blue leather armchairs that surround a tiny fireplace.

“ _He_ was talking to _me_.”

Arthur sputters, “I was not!”

“Well, I’m sure he wanted to,” the man decides and then winks at Arthur with his pretty blue eyes. Arthur wills his own not to pop out of his head and out onto the floor.

“Sorry about him,” the woman who’d spoken before directs at Arthur after giving the man on the floor (well, technically he’s in a chair now) a stern look. “What can I get you?”

“I’ll try a latte please,” he glances at his watch again, “to go.”

“Anything else?”

“That’ll be it.”

“Great, I’ll have it up in a minute. You can take a seat there if you’d like,” the woman tells him, waving her hand at the chairs pulled up to the counter beside him. Her dark, curly hair falls around her face as she learns forward to give Arthur his change.

She and the odd young man in the chair seem to be the only people in the shop and Arthur wonders if she ever has any help. But she seems pretty efficient, Arthur notes, watching her buzz around from machine to machine making his drink. She’s not in a uniform either; opting instead for a sleeveless blouse and a long, blue and orange striped skirt that ends at her feet.

“Have you ever been here before?” she asks him, friendly tone to her voice.

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. I’m quite good with faces,” she tells Arthur as she adds a dollop of whipped cream to the top of his drink. “Oh, sorry, did you want whipped cream?”

Arthur nods and she pops a lid on the paper cup before sliding it into a sleeve. She hands it to him with a smile.

“Come back soon, sir,” she insists.

“Have a good one,” Arthur replies genuinely as he heads for the door, and even manages to grin back.

He can’t help from glancing over at the brunet as he leaves, but he’s facing the fireplace with a pair of giant headphones on. Arthur hears quiet little thumps from where he’s tapping his boot against the floor. When the man starts to turn, Arthur quickly looks forward again and heads out the door.  


* * *

  
As it turns out, the latte is _wonderful_.

He spends the next week daydreaming about it because he’s too busy at the office to be able to take the time to stop and get one. So he’s forced to drink the shit cafeteria coffee and try his hardest not to vomit all over his father or his desk or his secretary or the navy blue carpet. One of their biggest clients had ended their relationship with the Pendragon Publishing company and as president and vice president, Arthur and Uther have to scramble to pick up the pieces (it was actually quite funny to see his father as frazzled as he was, with his grey hair all stuck up into the air on one side from running a shaky hand through it as they’d sit at the giant glass table in the main conference room and fill out cancelation paperwork. At least in the conference room, there’s no ticking, Arthur reminds himself gratefully). Obviously, Arthur keeps this all to himself and instead plays supportive son. It’s the most convincing he’s been in a long time. He sits up straight and maintains eye contact and buttons the very top button of his dress shirts. On Friday, he even wears a tie pin.

“You look very nice today, Mr. Pendragon,” Arthur’s secretary tells him as he exits his office that afternoon.

“Thank you, Sharon,” he says robotically.

“Long week, huh?” she continues.

Arthur stops walking abruptly, not prepared for an extensive conversation. He futzes with his tie pin as he responds, “Ah. Yeah, long week.”

“Up to anything this weekend?”

“More work, probably,” he lies, but it definitely sounds like _Please stop talking._  

There’s a pause in the conversation as she looks at him with her green eyes almost expectantly. Arthur’s fingers finally fall from the gold pin and he stabs his thumb in the direction of the lifts.

“Well, I’m off. Have a good one, then.”

“You too, sir,” she grins, somewhat deflated, and, okay, what?

He thinks she says something else as he’s walking away, but the only word his brain processes right now is, _coffee coffee coffee_. He makes a beeline to his car in the parking structure and all but launches his work bag into the backseat. He highly doubts it’s going to even enter his house in the next couple days. The thought of not having to worry about work for a while relaxes him considerably as he drives to Guinevere’s. The sun’s disappeared from the sky at this point, leaving the bright moon to light up the car park as he pulls in and, shit, is the place even still open? He really needs to check their hours. Or he could just look in the windows, which reveal that all of the tiny but efficient lamps hanging over the tables are still on. He exhales a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding as he swings open the door, mood drastically improved from only just ten minutes ago.

This time he sees a few more people here. A man in a trench coat sits at the bar by the till and an older couple is nestled comfortably on the couch by the fireplace. At seeing them, Arthur immediately realizes the absence of the brunet with the giant headphones and weird winking tendency. He’s not sure if he’s relieved or disappointed.

But then a strong scent of coffee is wafting into his nose and he turns away from them, quickly stepping up to the till. It’s perfect timing as the young woman from last time, Guinevere, steps out from the back room to greet him.

“Hi,” she smiles. “You came back!”

Her enthusiasm is jarring and Arthur just stares as she continues.

“Merlin and I were making bets as to whether you would or not. I said you would.”

“You win,” Arthur flashes her a smile.

“I said you wouldn’t,” a deeper but smooth voice pipes up from behind the counter. Arthur cranes his neck and peers over it to see the blue-eyed brunet sitting on the floor. Surrounding him are stacks of cups, lids, and a clipboard with a pen attached to it by a blue string. “And now I owe Gwen five pounds,” he frowns as Arthur continues to stare at him warily. He seems like the kind of person who is prone to making sudden movements and could possibly be a professional pickpocketer.

“On the floor again, I see,” is what Arthur says back to him.

“Care to join me?” the brunet, _Merlin_ , says insatiably and scoots a stack of cups to vacate the spot next to him. His pale hand and long fingers tap at the tiles as one of his eyebrows moves impressively closer to his hairline.

“Merlin, I swear to god,” Guinevere says in what Arthur thinks what she probably believes is a hushed voice. Her tone is like that of a parent whose child has just taken their trousers off in the middle of a crowded shopping mall.

Arthur interrupts them with his latte order and pays a polite Guinevere what he owes. He then steps to the side and pretends to admire a sign that’s been hung up indicating an upcoming local music show. His eyes want desperately to snap to Merlin’s (he can only see his mess of dark hair, ocean blue eyes and nose over the counter from where he stands), but he denies himself. 

“Keep that up and he’s never going to come back here,” Guinevere’s telling Merlin as she fixes Arthur’s drink. Arthur instantly tries to appear even more interested in the poster, repeating the show’s dates and starting times over and over in his head as he eavesdrops.

“On the contrary,” Merlin huffs dramatically. In his peripherals, Arthur sees some of Merlin’s bangs fly up off his forehead as he does so. “I am charming as fuck.”

“Oh my god, why can’t I fire you?” she’s asking herself more than him, voice back to its normal volume now.

“Because I don’t work here?”

“You should.”

“Really?”

Gwen laughs brightly as if she’s just heard the funniest joke in the world and then flatly replies, “No.” Arthur has to stifle himself from chuckling as he meanders his way back to stand in front of the till. Gwen’s yellow sundress spins around her knees as she turns to hand him his coffee.

“Here you are! Come again,”

“Arthur,” he finishes for her. “I’m Arthur.”

And er, alright then. He hadn’t even told Percival his last name until he’d been going there for at least six months. He ignores the way his mind reaches out towards her and Merlin, starving for human interaction.

Well, human interaction from people who aren’t his bloodline. Or his human resources advisor.

He stamps that need down until the initial pang of realization shies away and he looks back to a pair of big brown eyes.

“Arthur, then,” she nods. “We’ll see you again soon.”

“Sure thing, Guinevere,” Arthur affirms, warm coffee feeling nice in his hand.

“Wait, I wanna be part of this too!” Merlin scrambles up off the ground, kicking stacks of paper cups over in the process. Arthur laughs a bit as Guinevere rolls her eyes and ducks behind him to pick them up. Merlin sticks out his long arm, fingers pointed forward.

“I’m Merlin Myrddin.”

“Arthur Pendragon,” Arthur says again, a bit distracted. This is the first time he’s seen this kid (he uses the term loosely, but he does look a good few years shier than Arthur’s own thirty-two) up close and Arthur warns himself never to let him near his office desk because his cheekbones would cut right through the glass. Not like Merlin would ever _be_ at Arthur’s place of work, let alone in his office. Not like Merlin even knows where he works, or like Arthur even _knows_ him, oh my god, Pendragon, get a fucking grip. What the fuck. What the fuck?

“Hello?” Merlin’s furrowing his brow now and pulls his hand out of their introductory shake to wave a white palm in front of Arthur’s face. _Whoosh, whoosh._

“What’s that?” Arthur asks, definitely not blushing.

“You’re that publishing guy?” The brunet asks, hand falling to rest flatly on the marble counter between them. “From that big tower downtown?”

“That’s right,” Arthur answers, awkwardly switching his cup of coffee to his other hand.

“So that’s what the tie pin’s about.” Merlin nods at him with his eyebrow raised again and a smirk (poorly) disguised as a smile tugging at his lips. Automatically, Arthur’s free hand comes up to finger it briefly.

A young woman has appeared to his right, waiting for her turn at the till. Arthur backs off and waves her ahead, stepping out of the way. Gwen stands up from the floor at the same time Merlin goes back into hiding out of view and greets the woman warmly.

Arthur throws a small wave at her over his shoulder and he starts to head for the doors. He turns back when he hears a _psssst. Psssssst._

“ _Psssst,_ ” Merlin hisses again, only his eyes visible above the countertop, “come back soon, okay?”

He sounds like a child making their new-found friend promise to return to the swing set at the same time tomorrow so they can play again. His blue eyes shimmer playfully.

“Okay,” Arthur replies honestly.

He really doesn’t know what it is, but he can’t help the smile that creeps onto his face as he walks to his car through the chilly evening air. He chalks it up to a weekend buzz.  


* * *

  
Later that night he makes up an excuse when Leon calls and asks him if he wants to meet him and a few other guys from work at a nearby pub for a drink. He makes himself sound casual and remorseful, all the while staring blankly at the desktop of his computer. He so desperately wants to be able to do things like that again, but he can’t bring himself to. It’s lost it’s appeal, like so many other things in Arthur’s life. He thinks about work (shocker) as he clicks his phone off. How can something he despises so much take up so much of his time and energy?

These days the company’s lucky if Arthur even bothers to half-ass his duties.

And as half-assed as his duties are, Arthur still finds himself exhausted. Days, weeks, months, _years_ stretch out before his eyes in a vast, white plane of nothingness. Its white color (or absence of color) is not to be mistaken as brightness. There is no bright future in his head. There hasn’t been for a while now. His fingers twitch against his thigh. Thinking about it makes his eyes burn in his skull and he walks across his living room to the bar. Arthur grabs a room-temperature bottle of vodka from the lower shelf and sets it down to retrieve a glass from the kitchen. When he returns and lifts it to pour himself some, it’s left a clear ring in the dust that’s gathered on the bar-top. He retreats to the couch with his collected items and drinks and drinks and drinks until the pictures of tropical vacation resorts he’s looked up on the internet have blurred mostly beyond his recognition. This state feels warm and cozy, like a goose feather blanket he’s wrapped himself up in. The white leather of his couch feels cool against his warm cheek as he nuzzles into it like a cat.

“Cats,” he says out loud, and that’s all he remembers.  


* * *

  
Saturday brings a hangover that Arthur definitely was not prepared for. The sun shines happily through the sunroof above the couch and wait, why is he on the couch? He squints his eyes open carefully. He sees the alcohol bottle on its side on the floor by the coffee table, lying motionless like a casualty. 

Ah.

Question asked, question answered.

And that’s about as much thinking as he does for the next few hours. He drags himself down the long, wide hallway into his bedroom and falls like a sack of potatoes onto his mound of blankets. The sun doesn’t invade this room like it does the other and Arthur passes right out.  


* * *

  
When he wakes up, his room is dark. He pissed away most of his Saturday, but at least he feels almost okay again. He takes a few aspirin for good measure and washes them down with a tall glass of water. His house is silent and he contemplates turning the television on just to hear something besides his thoughts, but he doesn’t. The sunroof in the adjacent living room allows the orange glow of the remaining sunlight to cast itself over the white carpet in a morphed, square shape. The quietness makes him itch but he makes no move to remedy it. However, he is grateful that there is no ticking. Sitting at the kitchen table, he puts his head in his hands.   


* * *

  
He floats on his back in an endless pool of blue water. It’s cool on his naked back and washes comfortingly through his blonde hair, making the strands dance like daisies in a windstorm. This goes on for a while, Arthur just suspended, calm. And then there’s this rumbling. It makes the water shiver around him as if frightened. He opens his eyes to see a wave closing in on him, crashing from the sky above. The wave is ringing. Why is the wave ringing?

When Arthur finally wakes up (for the third time today), it’s because his mobile’s going off in his bedroom. He heaves himself up from the table and jogs groggily to retrieve it. The whole house is dark now. Dark and quiet. Someone walking by would think it’s unoccupied. It feels that way to Arthur too.

“Hello?” He rubs at his eyes as he answers.

“I need you fill out some spreadsheets and send them Maskers Incorporated straight away. I’m emailing you the information right now,” Arthur hears his father typing for a bit before he continues, “Just sent it.”

Arthur lifts his arm to look at his watch. “It’s nine-thirty on a Saturday night,” is all he says. He presses the receiver into his shirt as he yawns. He lifts it back up to his ear.

“I’m aware,” Uther replies shortly. Arthur hears more typing.

“Can’t I do it tomorrow?”

“Do I sound like I’m trying to negotiate with you?”

Arthur winces. “You’ll get them tonight.”

“Good.” 

Arthur can practically see the affirmative nod his father always gives him.

“Thank you,” he then adds, a complete afterthought, and the phone clicks off.

“Bye then,” Arthur says to no one. He falls back on his bed and groans loudly. If he’s going to get any sort of work done, he’s going to need coffee. And a lot of it.  


* * *

  
Arthur’s more than halfway to Guinevere’s when he realizes that there is a good chance it’ll be closed. He glances at the digital clock on the radio of his car, black numbers lit up by a glowing blue background; quarter til ten.

“Fuck,” he says aloud.

It’s definitely going to be closed. He curses his father the entire remainder of the drive. This shit happens _all the time_. If Arthur actually had things to do, friends to meet, or lovers to be with, he would be even angrier. Or perhaps less angry, because those things would make his job worthwhile.

At this point, he doesn’t think anything could make him feel that way.

He parks his car directly in front of the shop. To his surprise, there are a few lights on over the till and he practically leaps out of his car, not even bothering to lock it. But businesses always keep a couple lights on after they close, for security reasons. He walks up to the door anyway. He looks at his reflection in the glass, lit up by the moon. He looks hopeless and disappointed, which is exactly what he is.

“Shit!” Arthur yells, because he can. “Fuck my fucking life.”

Instantly, the door swings open and a face is staring at him, covered in shadows. Arthur can see that the person’s hood is pulled up and he can tell that they’re about his height, maybe a fraction of an inch taller. For a split second he thinks he’s going to be killed, or at least robbed.

“You really are mental,” the face says.

“Hey,” Arthur says, squinting and moving his face closer. “You’re the bloke who’s always on the floor.”

“Merlin-“

“Myrddin, right,” Arthur finishes. He’s surprised he remembers.

“And you’re that rich Pendragon guy,” Merlin says in return. “What the fuck are you doing standing in front of a closed coffee shop at past ten at night, shouting profanities?”

“Uh,” Arthur says charmingly.

Merlin sighs loudly and steps out of the doorframe. Arthur stares at him.

“Well, fucking come in,”

Arthur’s torn. Merlin, though he does look like a professional pickpocketer, doesn’t seem like the murdering type. Arthur wishes he’d brought his phone in from the car just in case, though. He steps slowly into the dark shop, thinking, _what the hell_.

“You know,” Merlin’s saying, “when I said come back, I meant during business hours.”

He flips on a few light switches by the door and the whole place illuminates at once. Arthur groans as he slaps his hand over his eyes.

“Whoops, sorry about that.”

“What’re you doing here?” Arthur asks him. Now that the lights are on, he sees a blanket thrown haphazardly onto the floor in front of the couch by the fireplace. There’s a slight, Merlin-shaped indent on it. “Were you sleeping?”

Merlin hops up onto the counter and sits there. His long, jean-clad legs swing back and forth, making little thumping noises as his socked heels hit the marble.

“Maybe,” he answers vaguely.

“But you don’t even work here,”

“Well, neither do you, and you’re here!” Merlin retorts defensively. Then he turns his body fully towards Arthur, pulling one of his legs up to rest it on the counter. He raises an eyebrow and asks, “You came to see me, didn’t you?”

Arthur feels his face turn pink. “How was I to know you’d be here?”

“Oh,” Merlin deflates a little, “Right.” Then he laughs, brightening up immediately. Arthur likes the sound of it. “Well, what do you want then?”

“I need coffee,” Arthur answers, sounding desperate.

“You couldn’t have gone to a place that’s open?”

Arthur shrugs, “I like this place.”

“Yeah, me too,” Merlin smiles. “I’ll make you some. Come sit over here at the bar and I’ll make you a latte. That’s what you want, right?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Arthur answers immediately, walking over and doing as Merlin says. Merlin hops behind the counter and turns the necessary machines on expertly. He pushes his hood back off his head and Arthur adds, “Wait, but. You don’t have to. I mean, I feel bad enough for waking you up, and now I’m making you work.”

“You’re not _making_ me do anything,” Merlin responds. His voice echoes off of the brick wall. “I’m happy to make you your latte, blondie.”

“ _Blondie_?” Arthur sputters incredulously. “Now, hang on a minute—”

“Yes?” Merlin interrupts, turning around with a mischievous glint in his eye. He steps up to the counter in front of Arthur and puts his chin in his hand. He grins and looks at him expectantly.

Arthur’s completely taken aback. This is the first time he’s really focused on him. His dark hair complements his pale face perfectly, not to mention it makes his eyes shine like city lights. He’s got a face that makes Arthur want to bring his hands up and cup it, and also maybe run his thumb along his prominent cheekbones.

“Quit staring at me,” Merlin demands, waving his hand in front of Arthur’s face like he apparently likes to do, “you’re freaking me out.” He doesn’t give Arthur time to reply before he spins back around and heads to the other end of the counter. Arthur definitely does not look at his arse as he bends over to collect a cup and matching lid from the bottom shelf.

“I seem to keep doing that,” Arthur says finally.

“Yeah. You’re a bit of a weirdo.”

Arthur thinks that’s about right.

“And yet I’m not the one breaking into coffee places I don’t even work at. And sleeping on their couches.”

“Ha-ha,” Merlin says dryly.

There’s a hum in the room emitting from the machines at work. Arthur watches as the stream of dark liquid pours neatly into the cup Merlin’s holding beneath the spout. Steam rises slowly from it and Arthur’s mouth waters, his hands twitching for the caffeine he so desperately needs.

“And I didn’t break in! I have the keys. Not like I need to explain myself to you,” Merlin’s saying, but there’s no malicious tone to it. His eyes keep sparkling like he’s telling an inside joke that only Arthur would understand. It’s almost comforting. Arthur puts his hands up in surrender.

“So if you don’t work here, why do you know how to do all this stuff?”

Merlin puts the lid on the coffee cup with a little audible _pop_. He hands it to Arthur, who takes it like Merlin’s handing him ten thousand pounds. Merlin hops up onto the counter again, beside Arthur this time, and crosses his legs in front of him. Arthur sips at the hot coffee greedily as Merlin talks.

“I’m here all the time. Gwen and I are best mates, so I help her sometimes when I don’t have a commission,” when Arthur looks up at him questioningly from his cup, Merlin explains, “I’m a muralist.”

“Merlin Myrddin, the muralist,” Arthur quips.

“Fuck yeah.” 

Merlin beams at him and Arthur looks quickly down at his drink and tries not to blush. He can’t remember the last time someone looked at him like that, all bright-eyed and unrestrained. It makes him feel open, raw. He chalks the warmth he feels deep in his chest up to the coffee and grins down at the counter despite himself.

“There’s a smile,” Merlin notes, poking at Arthur's cheek with his finger. “I knew I’d get one out of you.”

“I smile,” Arthur argues, looking up at Merlin with a stern face.

“Not often enough,” Merlin scoffs. “I smile _all_ the time.”

“Is it a competition?”

“Nope. Because I’d win.”

“Yeah, you would,” Arthur concedes. “I guess I don’t do it that often.”

It’s a statement that makes Arthur want to disappear into thin air immediately and forever. Despair washes over him like the giant wave in his dream. He doesn't hardly _ever_ smile anymore. What kind of person doesn’t smile? Arthur realizes bitterly: someone who’s empty.

They’re both quiet for a second, the humming of the machine filling the air.

“I wish you would,” Merlin says then, pulling his knees up to his chest. “It suits you.”

Arthur looks back up at him for a beat before saying, “I have to go.”

“Really?” Merlin asks, openly upset.

Arthur wants to stay, really. But his mood has deflated and Merlin’s so nice and happy and Arthur would only bring him down. He doesn’t think he could bare that. Also, there’s that small matter of filling out those forms his father had emailed him. Shit. Arthur stands up from the bar stool and pulls his wallet from his back pocket.

“I’m sorry, Myrddin,” he says genuinely. “I’ve got to do some work.”

When he holds out money at him, Merlin pushes it away.

“It’s fine. It’s on me,” he gestures to the cup on the counter between them.

“Oh, no,” Arthur insists, shoving the money at him again. “Please take it.”

“Listen, blondie, it was my pleasure. Really.”

“Thank you,” Arthur nods and smiles at him for good measure.

“See you,” Merlin calls after him as he leaves.

When he gets into his car, Arthur’s still smiling.  


* * *

  
“Did you ever find a new coffee place?”

Arthur jumps because when the fuck did Mithian walk in? She’s sitting on the couch behind him now, looking at her nails. Arthur takes a couple calming breaths before turning back to his computer and habitually saving the document he’s working on.

“You need to wear a bell or something,” he tells her. “And yeah, I did. A few weeks ago.”

“What is it?”

“It’s called Guinevere’s. It’s about ten or so minutes away.”

“We should go get some coffee on your break.”

Arthur sighs, “Not going to have one today, most likely. My father’s given me a list of things that need to be completed by lunch and I am on number…” He switches tabs on his browser to revisit the email. “One. Fuck, really?” he says to himself, squinting and leaning closer to the screen. He ignores the fact that his father believes that he needs a numbered list, like he’s an infant. Instead, he spins around in his chair to look at Mithian’s disappointed face.

“Maybe I’ll go then,” she decides, tucking her brown hair behind her ear. It makes her earring jingle.

Arthur frowns. He’s not exactly about his new place becoming Mithian’s new place. If it becomes her new place, then it becomes the entire bottom floor’s place due to her chatter, and then eventually Arthur’ll walk in one day to see his father at the till, shooting wary looks at Merlin who’d probably be rolling around on the floor in front of the fireplace. The thought makes him grin and he doesn’t even notice. Okay, so it definitely wouldn’t be his father’s kind of place. 

“What’s that?” she asks, swinging her legs over the side of the couch and turning to face him.

“What’s what?”

“You grinned. I didn’t know you were capable of that.”

“Why’s everybody saying that to me?”

“Uh, because you’re always miserable and brooding.”

Arthur furrows his brow. She’s got a point, but he doesn’t tell her that.

“You better get started on that list,” she points a red fingernail at his computer, “and I’ll get us some coffees. Latte?”

“Please,” Arthur answers. He then gives her the directions she asks for and she’s on her way out, shutting the door behind her.

Tick, tick, tick.

“I really need to tell her to stop doing that,” he tells himself.

He doesn’t focus on it long because there’s a daunting list of boring and pointless (by his account at least) things he’s got to do in front of him just waiting, but Arthur’s sort of disappointed. He wouldn’t mind going to Guinevere’s right now. He’d love to get out of the office (what else is new), and okay, he sort of likes the company there. He thinks about Merlin peeking his eyes over the counter and asking Mithian to come back again as she’s turning to leave and feels a weird pang in his stomach. Arthur sits there for another minute feeling useless until the list becomes too hard to ignore. He looks back at his computer.

Tick, tick, tick.  


* * *

  
Somewhere in the next few weeks, he decides to start visiting Guinevere’s more frequently. He loves the coffee and the atmosphere and he’s actually gotten to quite like Guinevere herself. She’s kind and friendly, but not to a freaky extent. She’s funny and adorable too, but Arthur doesn’t ever think of her romantically. He doesn’t think she does either and that makes him relieved; he wouldn’t want to awkwardly refuse her advances and then have to find another place to get his coffee. Again. That would be a nightmare.

Merlin’s there most of the time, too, but Arthur wishes he was there more (he keeps this to himself, obviously). Merlin always entertains him with anecdotes or the troubles of being a muralist and keeps him updated on the new utensils and paints he buys online, which to Arthur seems risky, but he nods along and listens anyway. It’s not his fake kind of listening either; the one he saves for board meetings at work or when his father barges into his office to talk at him about _expectations_ or when Mithian insists on telling him about her nights out with the new interns; he _actually_ listens.

The whole situation is extremely odd to Arthur.  


* * *

  
“What’s green and has four wheels?”

“I don’t know.”

“Grass. I was lying about the wheels!” Merlin yelps, and then proceeds to spit all over Arthur as he laughs about it. Arthur sighs exasperatedly and takes his coffee as Gwen hands it to him.

He then moves over a bit to sit at one of the barstools at the counter. He sets his cell phone and wallet in front of him and takes his first sip. The bright afternoon sun shines beautifully on the brick wall across from him. Arthur’s always liked that wall.

“What are you doing?” Merlins asks him, eyes wide.

When Arthur looks to Gwen, she’s staring at him in the same way. They look like Arthur’s just dropped his pants and taken a shit, right in the middle of the lobby. He looks between them again before answering hesitantly.

“Er, sitting down?”

“Really?” Merlin asks giddily.

“Yes?”

“I don’t think you’ve ever sat down here before. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you for more than five minutes at a time,” Merlin thinks, his dark eyebrows furrowing, “Except for that one night you broke in.” Arthur immediately snaps his eyes to Gwen and holds up his hand, palm facing her and fingers splayed out. 

He says quickly, “That’s not what happened. It—”

“I don’t wanna know,” Gwen decides, putting her hands on her hips. She starts to walk over to the till but then spins back around, her brown hair flying over her shoulder. She points a finger at them and says in a low voice, “Just, no sex on the counters. Or the couch. You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to get stains out of that material.”

Arthur practically spits his coffee all over the back of Merlin’s head and then chokes for a good minute trying to breathe. He imagines with the color his face is turning, he’d make a pretty good stop sign.

“No, wait,” he sputters, “That’s not—we didn’t—that’s not—” but Merlin interrupts him.

“Sorry Gwen,” he picks at his thumbnail casually as he talks, “too late.” Then he looks at her, eyebrow raised, and says coolly while wrapping an arm around Arthur’s shoulders, “And this one is _wild_. You wouldn’t believe it. I mean, the _shapes_ he can—”

“Oh, my god!” Gwen cries, face reddening (but nowhere near as bad as Arthur’s). “This is like, the _definition_ of too much information.”

“Customer,” is all Merlin says, pointing to a man who’s just walked up to the till. Gwen flees to help him.

Merlin throws his head back and cackles, detaching himself from Arthur to slap a hand against his own chest as he laughs. Arthur sits there, mortified. He takes a quick gulp of his coffee as Merlin carries on. 

“Oh, quit looking so—” Merlin imitates Arthur’s face, eyes nearly popped out of his head and mouth agape, “she knows I’m only joking. Besides, if we actually had, she knows I would’ve told her about it already.”

“Nice, Myrddin,” Arthur comments, rolling his eyes again.

“Wouldn’t you?” Merlin brings his face closer to Arthur’s now and blinks. Arthur’s forced to look at his eyes, admiring the way they shimmer in the light that floods the room. He has to force himself not to look down at Merlin’s lips; his pink, full, admittedly gorgeous lips. Arthur only notices all this because he is, of course, staring at them now.

“I—er, I mean, you—” Arthur trips over his words.

Merlin cackles again and slaps Arthur on the arm, pulling back to sit up straight again. Arthur lets out a shaky breath, grateful for the distance that’s now between them.

“Are you always this articulate?”

“…Yes,” Arthur answers honestly, and drops his empty cup into a nearby trash bin.  


* * *

  
At the end of the next week, Uther walks in on him asleep on top of his keyboard.

Well, it was bound to happen sometime.

“Arthur Pendragon,” Uther says in a tone of voice that makes it sound like he’s speaking from deep inside of a cave. Arthur starts at once, launching himself up and out of his desk chair to face his father. He blinks a few times to let his eyes adjust to the mid-afternoon light pouring into his office.

“Father,” is all Arthur says, unsure.

“My office,” Uther growls, “Five minutes.”

As soon as he leaves, Arthur collapses on his couch and rubs his face ferociously with his hands. But instead of feeling guilty, there’s an empty, gnawing feeling in his stomach where guilt should be. Instead, he feels nervous. He could really use some coffee.  


* * *

  
Uther’s on the phone when he walks in and motions him to sit in one of the chairs facing his giant desk. He sits down like he’s just another client, finally getting their meeting with the president of the company. His fingers tap against his knee repeatedly. Arthur looks to the wall of framed photographs to his right; one of his beautiful late mother, one of Arthur and his sister when they were little, and one of Uther and another man shaking hands, the building looming in the background. In the occasional silences, Arthur notices that his father’s office doesn’t provide the kind of ticking that Arthur’s does. Lucky bastard.

“That is correct,” his father’s saying into the phone.

Arthur looks at the picture of him and Morgana. Their faces are smashed together and her raven hair contrasts spectacularly with his head of blond. Arthur can’t bring himself to grin like he’s doing in the picture. He can’t remember the last time he’d seen her. It has to be a couple years, at least.

At the bottom corner of the frame is another picture, folded a bit in the corner like it had been taken out of a wallet not long ago. It’s a picture of Morgana from when she’d been promoted to chief inspector. Her green eyes are sparkling and she looks so proud. Arthur remembers that day.

“You’re not even listening to me now,” his father’s saying.

“What?” When Arthur looks over, Uther is staring at him, eyes narrowed. “I was just looking at that picture of Morgana,” he confesses.

Immediately, Uther’s face softens and he looks over at it too. He hums. Arthur thinks of what a feat it must be for his father to be proud of her. When they look back at each other, Uther leans forward on his desk and narrows his eyes again. Before he can speak, Arthur pipes up.

“I’m sorry. I’m just…tired,” he finishes lamely, fingers still tapping at his knee.

“It’s always something, isn’t it? You’re _tired_ or you’re _scatterbrained_ or you’re _preoccupied_. Arthur, this isn’t how you used to be. You used to be excited about this job. You used to have ideas,” Uther leans back in his chair. “I haven’t heard an idea from you in months.”

Arthur doesn’t know what to say.

“You are my son,” Uther says, and Arthur thinks, _duh,_ “and I want to see you excel.”

“I know…”

“I’m not seeing that potential from you anymore.”

“Me either,” Arthur doesn’t say.  


* * *

  
By the time his father finally lets him leave his office, it’s well past the end of the work day. He feels weighed down by his father’s expectations and sluggish from his lack of caffeine. When he gets back to his own office, even his secretary has gone.

He stares down at his desk, his brain not yet processing the conversation. Instead, he puts his head in his hands again and promptly falls asleep.

When he wakes up (several hours later, judging by the darkness that’s enveloped him), there’s a sticky note on his cell phone.

“The fuck?” Arthur asks the darkness groggily.

_Take the rest of the week off,_ it says in his father’s slanted handwriting.

He deflates completely.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, _shit_.”

Tick. Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.  


* * *

  
He knows it’s going to be closed, but he heads for Guinevere’s anyway.

Maybe a small part of him is hoping it will be, and that Merlin will be there.

The evening air bites right through his button-up as he jogs for the front door. Again, the moon lights up his reflection in the glass. And again, he looks hopeless and disappointed.

He taps his knuckles against it tentatively and when nothing happens, he sighs. His breath fogs up the glass, so he does it again just because. When he’s ready to do it a third time, the door swings open.

“Myrddin,” Arthur breathes gratefully.

“You’re grinning again!” Merlin points at him. “Already! And I haven’t even said anything yet! Well, technically I have now. But still.”

“Will you just let me in?”

Merlin steps out of the way without another word and Arthur walks inside. Immediately, he throws himself on the couch and grinds the heels of his palms into his eyes. Merlin sits somewhere near his middle; Arthur knows because he can feel a dip in the cushion.

“Want your latte?”

“No.”

“Arthur,” Merlin says so gently that Arthur removes his hands from his eyes and looks at him. Only the light above the fireplace is on, casting a warm orange glow over him. Arthur desperately wants to lean up and cup his face. Merlin continues, “Did something happen?”

“Yes.” Then, “No.”

“Oh my god,” Merlin rolls his eyes, “You’ve just barged in here after closing knowing I’d be here and you don’t even want any coffee. Would you just tell me what’s on your mind? Something has to be the matter.”

“It’s—”

“Unless you’ve come here for sex—”

“I didn’t come here for sex!” Arthur replies, appalled.

“You know, you’re cute when you blush,” Merlin pushes his lips together in a thin line like he’s thinking before adding, “And you blush a _lot_.”

Arthur was right about this plan; he’s already feeling better. He doesn’t know why, but Merlin always lifts his spirits. He’s blushing and flustered and still feeling hopeless about his job and his father, but he does feel a bit better. At this point, he’ll take even that.

“You know, you’re very peculiar.”

Merlin says this and then slaps a hand flat on Arthur’s stomach. It’s a friendly touch, but it makes Arthur’s skin underneath boil anyway. Arthur’s never been one for friendly touches, but this? This, he doesn’t mind. He swallows audibly.

“I’m not peculiar,” Arthur says matter-of-factly. “ _You’re_ peculiar.”

“How so?”

“The first couple times I saw you you were sprawled on the floor.”

“That’s only because I don’t like confining myself to the limited spaces of chairs.”

“See, like, _that’s_ peculiar.”

“I think your tie pins are peculiar.”

“Tie pins are pretty standard,” Arthur agues.

“For rich blond business tycoons, sure.”

“Do you know many rich blond business tycoons?” Arthur asks and then worries silently.

“Just you.”

Arthur feels relieved but doesn’t let himself think about why. He gets the sudden image of a tall, handsome, blond man in a suit strolling into Guinevere’s, all smiling (like Arthur never does) and sweeping Merlin off his feet with his articulateness and interesting anecdotes. Merlin’s touch feels hot on his stomach and it brings Arthur back to reality.

“You’re probably cute when you blush too,” Arthur says bravely, slinging his forearm over his eyes so he doesn’t have to see Merlin’s reaction. “If you ever blushed, that is.”

“I rarely blush,” Merlin agrees, nodding his head. Arthur bobs up and down on the couch a bit from the force of it.

“Do you ever get embarrassed, Myrddin?” Arthur asks. He wishes he could be like that; free and unrestrained and lively.

“Oh, sure,” Merlin beams. “I do tons of dumb shit.”

Arthur moves his arm so he can shoot Merlin a questioning look.

“Like what?”

“Er,” Merlin thinks. “Like flirt with rich blond business tycoons who are way out of my league?”

Arthur goes still.

“Am I blushing now?” Merlin asks quickly, moving his hand from Arthur’s stomach to cover his mouth. It’s the first time Arthur’s really seen Merlin fazed and it throws him for a loop. The place Merlin had been touching feels cold.

“Yes.”

“Do I look cute?”

“Yes,” Arthur answers honestly, “but that’s nothing new.”

Merlin beams at him and Arthur smiles too.

“Want that latte now?” Merlin asks, flying off the couch and sprinting across the room in socked feet. He leaps over the counter and turns back to Arthur, who’s grateful for the out. He gets up too and sits at the counter, his grin unfaltering.  


* * *

  
It turns out that Arthur’s even more bored _not_ at work than he is _at_ work.

He cleans his entire house, takes sporadic naps, makes a couple impromptu and unnecessary trips to the supermarket, washes all of his clothes (dirty or clean), and it’s still only Thursday. So for the next few days he remains in a drunken haze, just hoping to make the hours go quicker. He only leaves his house once more to refresh his liquor supply. He lies in bed, on the living room floor, on the bathroom floor (while dry heaving into the toilet), and even on the kitchen counter, all while clutching a bottle of unharmed vodka in his left hand. Arthur thinks that’s pretty impressive. He thinks this even when he wakes up on Sunday evening with a hangover that could kill a few children or maybe a small bear or something.

He spends the rest of the night lining up the new bottles he’d bought up on the shelf like little soldiers. He stops and retreats back to his bed when even the sight of them makes him want to dunk his head into an active volcano.

When he wakes up on Monday morning, he sees a job listing site is pulled up on his computer. He closes it slowly and tucks it into his work bag without another thought.

Even the drunk him knows when to (literally) call it quits.  


* * *

  
When he gets back to work, he doesn’t feel as miserable as usual. Maybe this is improvement. He passes his father on his way to the lifts and he merely nods.

Okay, maybe not.

It’s not even lunch yet when Mithian comes into his office, unannounced as always.

“Good to have you back, Pendragon,” she grins at him. Her pantsuit is a navy blue today that somewhat matches the carpet.

“Good to be back.”

“So? How was the convention?” she asks, sitting in one of the chairs in front of his desk and putting her chin on her clasped hands in a _tell me more_ fashion. Arthur stares.

“What?”

“The Young Business Owners convention? I can’t believe Uther sent you all the way to Edinburgh.”

Ah. So that’s what his father told them all. Arthur supposes a curt _my-son-is-failing-me-and-has-no-interest-in-his-work-as-of-late-so-I-forced-him-on-a-vacation_ speech wouldn’t exactly cut it. Arthur grins at her without missing a beat.

“It was great.”

“Meet any other hot, young business owners while you were there? Geez, how long has it been since you’ve gotten any?”

“Yeah, that’s _really_ none of your business.”

Mithian shrugs and splays her hand out in the air in front of her, inspecting her nails.

“You’re the human resources advisor,” Arthur adds, just remembering. “You’re supposed to punish coworkers who talk to each other about this kind of stuff.”

“Right, right,” Mithian says, and then winks at him. 

Arthur rolls his eyes.

“Hey, want a coffee?” she digresses. “I was thinking about going to that place you told me about again.”

Arthur agrees and she’s off, heading out the door with her brown hair waving behind her. As soon as she exits, his father steps in. He really needs to think about getting a Do Not Disturb sign for his office door. He knows for a fact that he would leave it up all the time.

“Arthur,” his father says, nodding at him. “You look chipper and…awake,”

Arthur doesn’t glare. He doesn’t. Instead, he grins.

“Oh, I am. Having a great day, actually.”

“That’s good,” Uther raises his eyebrows. “You know, son,” here, he closes the door— “if you’re having a relationship with someone who works for you, you must disclose it to Human Resources. I see how that may seem odd, seeing as—”

“What?” Arthur interrupts.

“I see Ms. Green exiting here quite often—”

“No,” Arthur interrupts again. “Father, no. I’m not… _dating_ Mithian.”

His father gives him a look that says he absolutely does not believe him.

“Honestly,” Arthur adds.

“Well, alright,” Uther amends, smoothing his tie with his palm. “I trust your break treated you well?”

Arthur thinks of his army of vodka bottles lined up on the shelf. 

“I’d say it was a success.”

“Good, good.” Uther inhales and exhales slowly before continuing, allowing Arthur time to jump in with more information if he needs to. Arthur can’t think of anything he might possibly want to share with his father, about his “break” or otherwise. “I just wanted to say I’m glad you’ve returned. And to remind you about that client meeting we’ve got at noon tomorrow.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

Uther nods at him once, even grinning a bit before seeing himself out and shutting the door behind him. Arthur’s left feeling like he was never even here in the first place.

_Tick, tick, tick._  
  


* * *

  
The client meeting goes surprisingly well; Arthur manages to pay attention the entire time and even pleases his father with his input. He rewards himself with a coffee break.

As soon as he strolls into Guinevere’s later on, his name is being shouted at maximum volume and all he sees is a dark blur before he’s tackled onto the couch. When he manages to look up, Merlin’s on top of him in a _very_ compromising position. He sits there, shocked, and tries not to pay attention to the comfort of Merlin’s slight body weight on his lap. The dark blur in question is beaming at him.

“Off,” Arthur instructs.

“Arthur,” Merlin sings, ignoring him. “I’ve got great news!”

When Arthur looks over Merlin’s shoulder, the entirety of the shop is looking their way, eyebrows raised. Arthur immediately blushes. This is already too much excitement for him.

“Boys, please,” Gwen’s shouting from behind the till, “take it outside!”

Merlin shrugs both his shoulders and flies off Arthur’s lap.

“Fine with me. I could use a cigarette anyway.”

Arthur stands up as well, straightening his dress shirt and slacks before nodding at Gwen and following Merlin out the back door. There’s a single table with a small potted plant in the center of it. It’s surrounded by a few cheap plastic outdoor chairs. Merlin has flopped down on one and lifted his legs to rest on another. Arthur takes the third. He sits in it awkwardly; it feels like it’s about to give out underneath him at any second.

“Want one?” Merlin is handing the box of cigarettes to him.

“No.”

Merlin produces a yellow lighter from the pocket of his jeans (Arthur wonders how anything can even fit in there given how tight they are, though he’s not exactly complaining) and lights one. The smoke curls up from the end, reaching toward the overcast sky with wispy, spindly fingers. Arthur watches Merlin take a drag, exhale and then breathe the smoke up his nose expertly. When Merlin grins at him, he looks away.

“Your news…?” Arthur prompts. Suddenly, Merlin’s blue eyes shimmer and he leans forward to place his hand on Arthur’s knee.

“Gwen’s gonna let me paint one of the walls of the shop.”

Arthur wonders if he should put his hand on top of Merlin’s, if only in a congratulatory way. He decides against it and smiles at him instead.

“That’s great!” he exclaims. “Which wall?”

“Isn’t it?! The one across from the fireplace. Don’t worry; not the brick one.”

“I love that brick wall.”

“I know you do.” Merlin taps his fingers against Arthur’s knee a few times.

“What are you going to paint?”

“I have _no_ fucking clue. That’s the beauty of it.” He finally takes his hand off Arthur’s knee.

“Is it?”

“Of course. I can do _anything_. Well, not anything,” he amends, flicking his cigarette against the rim of the pot on the table. The ashes fall into the soil. “I’m not sure Gwen would appreciate if I painted a couple of midgets fucking an amazon woman.”

“How did you even come up with that?”

“I’ve seen a few things,” Merlin says coolly.

“Oh, my god, Myrddin.”

Merlin smiles, wide and unashamed. Arthur falls a little bit in love.

“But hey, you’re probably on your break. I’m distracting you from your latte. Also, I’m sure you’ve got things to file. Books to publish. That’s what you do, right?”

“At this point, I’m not even sure.”

Merlin furrows his brow and switches the cigarette to his other hand.

“You don’t like it,” Merlin states rather than questions.

“That’s a conversation for another time,” Arthur decides, standing up. Merlin frowns up at him, smoke billowing above his head like a distorted halo. “Congratulations about the mural. I can’t wait to see what you come up with.”

“Me either!”

“Come to think of it, I’ve never seen any of your work before.”

“ _My work_ ,” Merlin repeats. “It sounds so professional.” When he laughs, smoke falls out of his mouth. “You should sometime. Sometime like today.”

Arthur glances at his watch and Merlin rolls his eyes at him.

“Not right now, dummy. Come to my flat later, when you get off work.”

“Really?”

Merlin looks at him like Arthur’s just asked him to sprout wings and fly to Japan.

“Of course, really.”  


* * *

  
This sudden invitation into the crevices and locked rooms of someone else's life is incredibly jarring to Arthur. But he probably should’ve seen this coming. This is how friendships progress, isn’t it? He doesn’t think for too long about the fact that the last time he made a friend was when he first started his job. And those friendships, if you could call them that, were strictly of convenience and somewhat forced anyway. In the last couple years, those relationships have withered away due to Arthur’s indifference and growing apathy. And yet, even with apathy now seeping out of every pore on his body, Arthur finds himself wanting to be around Merlin.

It doesn’t make any sense.

For so long he’s prided himself on his ability to just _be alone_. Now he feels the wall he’s built around himself crumbling with every grin Merlin shoots him, every crinkle around his eyes that only show when he laughs really hard about something.

He thinks that, with Merlin around, even his job seems a little less shitty.  


* * *

  
“It’s much cleaner than I expected,” Arthur says as he walks into Merlin’s flat.

“Thank you. I think.”

Arthur laughs a bit and looks around. Light floods in from a pair of giant bay windows and hits the white brick walls, making the whole room brighter. A small white love seat occupies the sunken living room, across from it a tiny television. In the far corner is a giant bed, even bigger than Arthur’s. It’s the kind of bed you see and immediately want to flop down on. Arthur, obviously, does not do this. Instead, he follows Merlin over to a wall that is lousy with canvases; large squares ones, small rectangular ones, even a few circular ones are set up against it, resting peacefully on the floor.

“Holy shit,” Arthur says breathlessly upon inspecting them.

Merlin seems to favor the cooler, calming colors like green and blue. Arthur’s eyes follow the swirls across the paintings. In a few of them, there’s a smatter of orange or red hidden playfully within the shapes. Arthur turns around to admire the canvas above Merlin’s bed; it’s an owl (well, half of an owl). One yellow eye glares menacingly forward and it’s wing stretches out, brown and tan and grey, flecked with black. Arthur imagines Merlin working on it, reaching across the huge canvas as he paints. He’s probably got paint all over his shirt. Maybe a grey smudge on his cheek and a black one on his wrist or elbow. Arthur can imagine his concentrated face, lips pulled tight over his teeth as he focuses.

“I’ve done portraits too, but I don’t keep ‘em out.”

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t like them staring at me all the time.” When Arthur glances at the owl, Merlin explains, “Him, I like. He’s not a person.”

Arthur understands that.

“It’s beautiful,” Arthur marvels, “The paintings, the owl, your flat…” _You._

“It’s no nine bedroom mansion, I know,” Merlin smirks.

“You think I live in a nine bedroom mansion?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Merlin shrugs and then lands heavily on his bed. He stares up at the ceiling. Arthur remains over by his paintings, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He eyes a row of tiny potted plants on the windowsill, soaking up the sunlight that’s beaming inside.

“This is a really nice flat,” Arthur says.

“Yeah, well. Used to have a roommate.”

“You did?” Arthur eyes the one bed. Ah. A _roommate_. “I take it you two had a falling out.”

“Of sorts,” Merlin shrugs again. “He died.”

It’s said with such casualness that it almost slips past Arthur, like Merlin’s commenting on the weather. Alarmed, Arthur walks a bit closer to the bed to look at him. Merlin’s still staring up at the ceiling. His face tells Arthur nothing. The muffled sound of conversing voices on the sidewalk below flows through one of the open windows, filling the silence.

Finally, Merlin says, “Just sit down on the bed, will you? You’re making me nervous just hovering there.”

Arthur takes a few more steps and sits down on the side Merlin’s not sprawled over, a safe distance away. The bed definitely is as soft as it looks.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur stammers, “about your friend.”

“It was about a half a year ago,” Merlin tells him, like that’s supposed to change the gravity of it.

“You don’t have to tell me any more.”

Merlin sits up and pulls his legs up to his chest. He looks at Arthur seriously.

“I want to,” he says quietly.

“Okay.”

“Will was more than a friend,” he admits, looking down at his knees. Arthur’s never seen Merlin look so small before, all curled up into himself in the middle of his giant bed. He wants to move closer, wants to put his arms around him. He only does the first one.

“I’d known him since I was a kid. We grew up together; had the same classes, lived in the same neighborhood, shit, our parents were best friends too,” he manages a faint smile at the memory. “We did everything together. We even committed to the same uni and took all the same courses. By that point, we were together; it was like we’d finally realized what we were to each other that whole time.” Merlin looks at Arthur then, calculating. “Stop me if you’re uncomfortable.”

Arthur doesn’t ask him what he means, but instead says, “Go on.”

At that, Merlin grins again and knocks his shoulder softly against Arthur’s. But instead of swaying back, he keeps it there. He continues, “He and art were the _only_ things I cared about. He knew me so well, he,” Merlin swallows, “I loved him so much. I still do.”

Arthur nods slowly, tracing the circles on Merlin’s comforter with his pointer finger. Merlin’s shoulder is a warm, solid presence on his own. He can feel blue eyes boring into his own but doesn’t will himself to look back; doesn’t want to see the wideness of loss in Merlin’s eyes.

“…That’s my story,” Merlin finishes, but Arthur knows there is a lot more to it. He doesn’t push it, though, and when Merlin then asks him about his job, he feels obligated to allow the swift subject change. At the mere mention of work, he sighs. Merlin laughs brightly and it’s a nice change of tone.

“I’m sorry,” he says through the end of his laugh so it sounds warbled, “I shouldn’t laugh.”

_Please do,_ Arthur thinks, _it makes me feel better._

“It’s fine,” he insists, waving a hand out in front of him.

“What about it is so terrible?” Merlin asks, honestly not getting it. “You’re rich, your dad’s your boss, your office is probably swanky as hell and you make more money in a day than most people see in a month. What’s so terrible about all that, shithead?” Merlin ducks from Arthur’s side and leans across the bed to grab a cigarette from his nightstand. Arthur admires the way Merlin’s thumb works the lighter and blushes when he’s caught staring. Thankfully, Merlin doesn’t say anything about it. He adds, “And you get to wear those suits that make you look so dapper all the time.”

“They’re supposed to be intimidating,” Arthur half-jokes.

“You pronounced dapper wrong,” Merlin smirks through a faint cloud of smoke. “Well, whatever they are, they work for me. You look good in them. You probably look good out of them, too.”

Arthur’s glad he’s not drinking anything because he’s certain he’d choke on it right about now, or at least spit it all over Merlin’s bed. Instead, he rolls his eyes casually and that makes Merlin snicker. Arthur definitely does not think about how he’s sitting shoulder to shoulder with a very pretty boy on said pretty boy’s very comfortable bed, and the pretty boy is telling him how he would look good out of a suit. He’s not thinking about it at all. No, seriously. At all.

“Continue,” Merlin prompts, breaking Arthur (thankfully) out of his thoughts.

“I hate it,” he confesses and then jolts with realization. “I don’t think I’ve ever said it out loud before. I hate it,” he repeats, this time with vigor. “I really, really hate it.”

“You should quit,” Merlin replies, exhaling smoke out of his nostrils.

“You remind me of a dragon when you do that,” Arthur tells him. Merlin shoots him an amused look, raised eyebrows and all. Arthur continues, “I used to care about it. Fuck, I even wanted to be the bloody _president_ of the company at one point, after my father retires. Now there’s nothing I want less.”

“You should quit,” Merlin says again.

Arthur groans, “That’s another thing: my _father_. He expects so much from me that sometimes I feel like I’ll fall to pieces from the pressure of it all. All the expectations…I can’t live up to them. I can’t.”

“You should quit.”

“I don’t like the work anymore. I have no interest in it, whatsoever. And there’s this goddamn ticking noise in my office, it won’t ever stop. I hate all my coworkers. I hate all the pretentious clients I have to meet with. I hate it all, Myrddin, I really do.”

It’s such a relief to let it all out like that. Some of them were thoughts he hadn’t even had before this moment, realizations coming to him one after another like waves crashing on a beach. Arthur thinks it’s such a relaxing metaphor considering the stress he’s under. He almost wants to laugh about it, but he can’t bring himself to. When he looks over, Merlin’s staring at him with wide eyes.

“What?”

He taps his cigarette out with long, delicate fingers on the ashtray that’s in his lap. He sounds impressed when he says, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk this much at once.” A moment passes before he repeats, “You should quit.”

“I can’t quit,” Arthur sighs frustratedly. “It’s too important to my father that I do this job, and that I do it well.”

Merlin rolls his eyes.

“What’s important,” Merlin prods Arthur’s chest for emphasis, “is that you’re happy. Fuck your father. Wait, ew, don’t. But you know what I mean.”

Arthur blows air out his nose quickly, a poor excuse for a laugh.

“I can’t,” Arthur says again. He sounds pathetic even to himself, and he knows it. But he can’t quit. He just can’t. His job is all he has.

What a realization.  


* * *

  
Somehow, after telling Merlin all about his intense hatred for everything Pendragon Publishing Incorporated related, it all becomes slighter easier to bare. He actually smiles at his secretary as he walks into his office for the next few days. He has lunch with his father midway through the week and he counts exactly two minutes and thirty-seven seconds of talking Not About Work before Uther eventually starts in on briefing Arthur about another client meeting coming up. But still, that’s two minutes and thirty-seven seconds more than usual. 

“You seem to have really made an impression on the people who work at this place,” Mithian tells him as she sets a latte on his desk.

“You’re a saint,” he gushes, taking a gulp of the hot, delicious drink. “And there’s only one person who works there, technically.”

“I told them that drink was for Arthur, and they both got these huge grins on their faces. It was really cute. They really like you,” Mithian pauses in the doorway. “Well, at least that woman does. The other one wrote ‘shithead’ on your cup.”

Arthur spins his cup around and sure enough, ‘shithead’ is scrawled on the side. He’s not sure if there’s actually a heart over the ‘i’ or if he’s just making it out that way. Regardless, he grins and takes another sip.  


* * *

  
On Friday, the entire staff gets to leave early due to renovations being done to the bottom floor. Arthur hears plans to meet at the pub for a celebratory drink. Of course, when Mithian and Leon ask him, he makes an excuse. But he actually thinks about accepting their offer for a second, and that makes him wonder. Maybe a night out with his coworkers wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. But he shrugs it off and decides that maybe he’ll go another time. He’s locking up his office when his secretary appears behind him.

“Arthur?”

Immediately, he is stunned by her casualness. He spins around to face her.

“I was wondering,” she starts, and then pauses to straighten out her skirt before looking up at him again. “I was wondering if you’d like to get a drink tonight. To celebrate,”

“Mithian and Leon have already asked me—”

“No,” she interrupts him, “I meant just…just you and I.”

“Oh,” Arthur says. He opens and closes his mouth, unsure of what to say.

“A date,” she clarifies cheerfully, and then looks proud of herself for doing so.

“Sorry Sharon, I—I don’t really date?”

It’s a lame excuse, and it probably sounds like shit, but it makes sense to Arthur. He has exactly zero feelings for her, romantic or otherwise. Though that statement goes for literally everyone—with one dynamic, blue-eyed exception. He shakes the thought off and stares back at her.

She nods curtly and replies, “Well then, I look forward to our professional relationship.”

It’s so forced that it almost makes Arthur want to laugh if he didn’t feel a bit bad. Honestly, what does she see in him anyway? He’s grouchy, unorganized, constantly asleep in his office when he should be doing vice president of the company things…He doesn’t understand. He watches her as she flees, still perplexed. But if she sees something in him that makes her want to be with him, maybe someone else does too.

Something swirls in his stomach. It feels a bit like hope.  


* * *

  
He makes trips to Guinevere’s his routine reward for paying attention and participating in client meetings. One Thursday afternoon when he walks in, Merlin literally drops the coffee he was handing to someone in mid-reach. When he swears, Gwen shushes him and shoves a towel to his chest.

“Clean it up, goofball,” she orders.

Towering over him, Arthur asks, “What the hell was that?”

Merlin beams up at him from the floor and answers, “I just wasn’t expecting to see you, is all.”

Arthur cocks his head. “Is it really that odd to see me in here?”

“In the middle of a work day, yes.”

Merlin tosses the sopping rag behind the counter and Arthur hears it hit the tile floor with a wet slapping sound. Gwen’s remade the drink and the man who’d ordered it is now sitting at the bar shooting wary looks Merlin’s way. It’s really not an uncommon thing to see, Arthur realizes.

“Just got out of a meeting. I needed coffee. It’s my reward.”

“For not leaping across the conference table and strangling everyone with your bare hands?” Merlin supplies, eyes twinkling playfully. Arthur barks out a laugh that makes Merlin grin even wider.

“Exactly, Myrddin.”

Merlin hops over the counter (earning himself a pinch in the shoulder from Gwen) and gets to work on Arthur’s latte. Arthur stands with his elbows on the cool marble, watching him. The shop’s pretty busy for the middle of the day; all of the high top tables are taken as well as the couch and one of the blue armchairs. He hears snippets of strangers’ conversations over the jazz music filtering from the speakers in the ceiling. He could really get used to jazz.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Merlin says over the whirr of a blender. “You usually send your girlfriend.”

Arthur notices a stiffness in Merlin’s shoulders as he says this. He’s also not looking at Arthur, but instead squats down to organize the cups on the lower shelf. Arthur smirks only because he knows Merlin can’t see.

“Ah, yes. Figured I’d give her a break. Hopefully I’ll get a reward other than coffee today, if you know what I mean.”

Merlin stands up and spins around all at once, grimacing. It’s probably one of the funniest things Arthur’s seen in his entire life; his lips in a deep frown, eyebrows pinched together like someone’s slowly driving a needle deeper and deeper into his arm.

“Gross,” is all he says back.

“We’re very much in love,” Arthur adds casually. Merlin squirms.

“Grosser,” he mumbles as he all but slams the coffee cup down in front of Arthur. Some of it sloshes out and onto the counter. Immediately, Gwen leans over and wipes it up. She’s like a machine. A curly-haired, sundress-wearing machine.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, and Merlin snaps his head up to meet his eyes.

“I’m joking. She’s my human resources advisor.”

Merlin squints at Arthur for a minute, searching his face for something. Arthur tries not to blush at the sudden attention. Then, Merlin grabs the stirring stick from Arthur’s latte between them and points it at him threateningly.

“That’s not funny, shithead,” he says flatly.

Arthur looks up as if considering this. 

“It was kind of funny,” he decides. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you grimace before.”

“I didn’t _grimace_ , Arthur.”

“Are you sure? It looked a lot like a grimace to me. And I would know. I grimace a lot.”

At this, Merlin’s finally lets a grin slip back onto his face. Then he laughs, bright and happy. It fills the shop and Arthur can’t help but grin back. Something about Merlin is just so electric; it buzzes through Arthur’s skin right down to his bones. His heart vibrates. Merlin turns around again to grab the container of whipped cream (Gwen makes it fresh herself every few hours, which impresses Arthur to no end) from the mini-fridge. He slides it across the counter to Arthur and then stabs a spoon into it with a dull _splunk._

“So if I did have a girlfriend,” Arthur muses as he scoops the cream from the small tub, “you wouldn’t give me any whipped cream?”

“Yikes, it depends on how you’d use it,” Merlin answers, raising his eyebrows goofily.

Arthur laughs but stops abruptly when Merlin sticks his finger into the tub and brings the bit of fluffy, white cream to his mouth. He licks it off with a long tongue and then proceeds to suck on his fingertip. Arthur’s watching. Of _course_ , Arthur’s watching. He couldn’t look away if he wanted; Merlin’s full, pink lips traveling down, down, down, so slowly that it’s almost painful. He’s almost down to his first knuckle when Gwen steps in.

“Health hazard!” she scolds, confiscating the whipped cream container from the two of them. 

Arthur doesn’t even notice.

“Ha!” Merlin yelps after removing his finger from his mouth with a small pop.

“Holy shit,” is what Arthur mutters, finally snapping out of his daze.

“Yep,” Merlin beams and leans forward on the counter, “that is not the face of a man who’s got a girlfriend.”

“Shit, I—you—”

“And I would know,” Merlin’s still talking, “because I’ve done that in front of guys who have girlfriends and I didn’t get nothin’ but glowers. And maybe a couple complaints to Gwen.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah,” Merlin agrees. “Good thing I don’t work here or she’d fire me for sure.”

“You are ridiculous.”

Merlin beams. 

“That, I am.”  


* * *

  
The next time he walks into Guinevere’s there’s a white tarp spread beneath one of the walls. On it are several tubes, cans, and different sized bowls with paint in them. Mostly green and blue—Merlin’s favorites, Arthur knows—and some pink, orange, yellow and colors in between. On the tarp is also Merlin, on his knees and vigorously stirring red and orange paint together on a plastic palette.

“Why on earth are you wearing a white shirt to paint in?”

Merlin turns to look up and when he sees Arthur, puts on a smile that makes Arthur want to reach out and touch his face. The wall remains blank and yet there is already a green smudge just above Merlin’s left eyebrow. Arthur grins at it.

“I always paint in white shirts,” Merlin answers matter-of-factly and then goes back to stirring.

Arthur tries to recall his ensemble when he’s seen him paint in the past (unfortunately, it’s only been a couple times). He thinks back to a weekend evening at Merlin’s flat. Arthur sat quietly on Merlin’s comfortable bed as he stood adjacent, his back to him, and painted at his easel. Music pumped loudly from the player at Arthur’s right, something Arthur had never heard before with a lot of guitar and synthesizers. It contrasted drastically from the canvas Merlin had been working on: an abandoned house sitting alone on a hill, the moon a tiny white circle in the far right corner. It had been the only bright color in the painting. Arthur remembers watching Merlin’s shoulder blades move smoothly under a crisp white shirt as he’d stretch his arms to collect more paint and run the paintbrush expertly over the canvas. Of course, by the end of the night, the shirt was more gray and dark blue than anything, especially over Merlin’s chest and shoulders. Arthur recalls his fingers twitching against his thigh, wanting to reach out.

“You okay?”

“What?” Arthur grunts, coming back to now. “Yeah. Yes.”

“Okay, weirdo,” Merlin grins. Then he continues, “I paint in white because it’s almost like the shirt itself is a work of art by the time I’m done. I keep the ones I really like.”

“You’re…” Arthur starts, but doesn’t know how to end it.

“Adorable? You look like you wanna tell me I’m adorable.”

“A dork.”

“You love it,” Merlin says, still grinning.

“Isn’t it uncomfortable?” Arthur digresses, looking around at the patrons in the shop; some stand around near the bar and others lounge in their seats, tentatively bringing steaming cups and mugs to their lips. “Painting with all these people around?”

“Not really. I let you watch me paint, don't I?”

“Yeah, but that’s different. We’re mates.”

Merlin shrugs again, “I kind of like having an audience.”

“I like watching you paint,” Arthur tells him.

“Yeah,” Merlin cocks his head and smirks, “but that’s only because you get to look at my arse when I do it and think I don’t know.”

Arthur glances to the red color on the palette that Merlin’s been creating and thinks it probably looks awful similar to the color of his face right now. One of the reasons he likes it when Merlin blasts music when he paints is that he dances to it in between strokes, and Arthur doesn’t even think he knows he does that. But there’s no way he’s going to bring it up now.

“What? I do not!” he argues, but it’s fruitless.

“Okay, Pendragon, sure,” Merlin winks.

Arthur mumbles something about coffee and walks to the till. He can feel Merlin’s eyes on him.

“Oh god,” Gwen says, startled. “You’re beet red!”

From over by the wall, Merlin cackles and Arthur can feel himself growing even redder.

“Are you alright?” Gwen asks worriedly. She leans across the counter to put the back of her hand to his cheek. Arthur rolls his eyes. 

“I’m fine, Guinevere, honest. It’s just…Myrddin,” he says, like that explains everything.

“Your flirting is getting tiring to watch,” she replies. 

Her brown eyes are wide with amusement, and maybe a hint of exasperation. Arthur knows the feeling. Suddenly, Gwen’s eyes grow even wider and she mumbles something about his latte as she spins off in a blur. In his peripherals, Arthur sees Merlin turn quickly back to his palette and in turn Arthur immediately looks down at the counter, blushing again. 

This place is going to kill him.  


* * *

  
The last week has been a week from hell, and Arthur knows the next is going to be the exact same. They’ve signed a new client; a company that needs Pendragon Publishing to churn out edition after edition of college textbooks. For some ungodly reason, his father has assigned most of the paperwork and meetings and such to him. When he got the email, the pen he was holding had snapped in half and black ink dripped all over his desk and onto the carpet (thankfully, the carpet’s dark enough not to notice the stains without trying to). So Arthur sits in his office and broods, while the ticking continues, thinking about how students will buy these textbooks and then throw them out immediately when the semester ends. It’s such a waste of resources and time and Arthur wants nothing to do with it. Of course, the poor kids have to buy the books anyway, and the money the company will earn is all that matters. 

Even on weekends he has to work and it’s driving him up the wall. He’s never wanted to quit so badly in his entire life. He feels he is at his breaking point.

And yet, he doesn’t. He does the paperwork and files it and sends it to the appropriate departments and sets up and then attends meetings with the witchy-looking textbook lady and through it all he has to smile and nod and agree and pay attention. It’s completely exhausting, and by the start of the second week from hell, Arthur wants to throw his laptop through the window of his thirteenth-floor office and jump out after it.

On top of all this, he’s forced to drink the shit coffee from the cafeteria because his father has forbidden him to leave the building until things settle down. He’s thirty-two but feels sixteen, and he’s been grounded; confined to his room until he apologizes for his behavior (or to Morgana, like that one time they were little and he popped the head off of one of her favorite dress-up dolls when she’d visited from her mother’s. She didn’t visit he and Uther’s house much after that). Mithian brings him cup after cup of said shit coffee and he gulps them down numbly. As a result, he’s wired through the afternoons and well into the night, unable to sleep until way too late. The next day he wakes up and the pattern repeats itself. It’s a vicious cycle.

Tick, tick, tick.

Arthur’s at his desk reading through his emails when he hears commotion from just outside.

“You have to make an appointment to see the Vice President, _sir_ ,” he hears Sharon say as she raises her voice. She sounds pained.

Another voice scoffs, “Appointment-schmointment. I’m gonna go in now.”

“Myrddin?” Arthur says aloud, squinting and trying to peer through the nearly-opague glass wall between he and his secretary’s desks. 

“You _can’t_ just go in! I’m calling security!”

At this, Arthur pushes back from his desk and goes to the door, opening it quickly. At the sight of him, Sharon stops with her pointer finger poised over the 1 and the receiver halfway to her ear. Merlin’s standing in front of her with his hands on his hips. He looks to Arthur and beams.

“Arthur!” he greets, flying at him and enveloping him in a tight hug.

“Myrddin,” Arthur grins into his shoulder. 

It’s muffled by his soft, flannel shirt. In the building of suits and ties, Merlin sticks out like a sore thumb. Arthur loves it. If he closes his eyes to relish in the warm touch, he doesn’t realize it. When he looks to Sharon, she’s still frozen in place and she’s glaring at Merlin’s back. It’s almost comical. Merlin’s middle finger curls around one of the belt loops at Arthur’s middle and when he pulls back, he doesn’t remove it. Arthur feels its pull at his side and wonders how Merlin can always touch so casually, so convivially without even realizing it. His heart buzzes.

He releases Arthur’s belt loop to put both hands on his hips again as he turns to Sharon.

“So, can I go in _now_?” he asks cheekily. Sharon grows red in the face.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she mumbles to Arthur. “I didn’t know— he wasn’t—”

“No harm done,” Arthur grins at her for good measure and waves Merlin into his office. He closes the door behind them.

“Holy fuck, look at this office!”

Arthur’s instantly glad he shut the door. Merlin then spins around to look at him. 

“Oh, sorry. I meant ‘holy fuck, look at this office, _sir_ ,’” he smirks.

The word coming from Merlin sends a shiver down Arthur’s spine. That, he could get used to.

“You liked that, didn’t you? You kinky bastard,” Merlin laughs, but it dies off partway. Then, he furrows his brow and squints at Arthur. “So, what the fuck?”

“Huh?”

“What the fuck, Arthur?”

Arthur’s lost.

“I haven’t seen you in like, two weeks.”

Immediately, he feels guilty, and at once he realizes that the gaping hole in his life he’d been feeling for the past couple weeks has been the absence of one Merlin Myrddin.

“Work has been fucking nuts,” Arthur sighs. He walks over to his couch and flops down ungracefully, grinding the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I’m sorry, Myrddin, truly.”

The ice in Merlin’s stare seems to melt and he sighs too, walking over and sitting down next to Arthur. Their thighs touch and it makes Arthur glad that Merlin apparently never learned the concept of personal space.

“So you’ve just been busy, then?” Merlin asks quietly as he picks at a loose thread on the cuff of his sleeve. 

“Yes,” Arthur answers, “of course.”

The sunlight coming through the giant windows behind them hits the back of Merlin’s head. His dark hair shines, making him look angelic, and Arthur wants desperately to run his hand through it. He watches as Merlin grins down at his lap. He continues to pick at the thread distractedly.

“I thought you’d just stopped coming,” he confesses, voice small in a way it only sounds like when he’s talking about Will.

“Why on earth would I do that?”

“I don’t know,” Merlin heaves out a frustrated sigh. He still refuses to look Arthur in the eye when he says, “I thought maybe that thing Gwen said made you freak out. Or that I’d done something that made you not want to come around anymore.” Insecurity is clear in Merlin’s big, blue, _beautiful_ eyes. Arthur rips his eyes off of Merlin’s face to look down at his lap too. Merlin continues, “That happens a lot. I’m a fucking idiot, seriously.”

At that, they both huff out a laugh.

“Me too,” Arthur tells him, swaying to knock their shoulders together.

“Yeah, but you’re a fucking idiot who has this office that is, just like I predicted, swanky as hell. Look at that fucking desk; it’s huge! And this couch! Who has a fucking couch in their office?”

“Me.”

“That’s right,” Merlin nods, “but I still think you should quit.”

“I know you do,” Arthur nods back, looking at him. “So, why did you come?”

“To bring you coffee,” Merlin answers and then looks down at his empty hands. “Ah, fuck, I forgot the coffee!” He presses a palm against his forehead and squeezes his eyes shut in frustration. Arthur laughs shortly, but can’t help but be a little disappointed. Shit cafeteria coffee remnants cling to his taste buds, punishing him.

“Okay, so, I guess I really just wanted to see if you were still alive.”

Arthur presses two fingers just under his jawbone and says, “Yep, still alive.”

Then Merlin does the same, reaching up to feel Arthur’s pulse. His touch is warm and as Merlin shifts, Arthur catches the scent of Merlin’s flat, of his clothes; of Merlin. He wants to lean in closer but instead sits up straighter, denying himself.

“Indeed,” Merlin agrees, smiling.

“Nothing to worry about, Myrddin.”

“I like you, shithead,” Merlin says then. 

It’s sudden and rushed, and Arthur can practically feel the nervousness coming off Merlin in waves. It’s strange. The faint ringing of his secretary’s phone can be heard through the wall.

“Huh?”

“Do you like me too?”

“What?” Arthur grunts again, completely caught off-guard.

“I asked if you like me too.”

“I—I do.”

A grin creeps slowly onto Merlin’s lips, and then he’s absolutely beaming. Arthur feels like they’re a couple of ten year-olds sitting on a bench together during recess. Sunlight hits Merlin’s blue irises and makes them shimmer like gems. It’s the most beautiful thing Arthur’s ever seen; it’s pure happiness, and he wants to soak in it for hours and hours at a time as the world spins on around them, busy and oblivious.

Arthur beams back and sets a hand on Merlin’s leg. He presses down in order to twist his body and lift his leg up on the other side of Merlin, straddling him. Merlin gasps as Arthur grinds down a bit on his lap, Arthur’s hands moving to rest on his shoulders. The material of Merlin’s shirt feels nice under his palms, but not nearly as nice as the feeling of Merlin underneath him. His eyes look wild, not knowing where to settle. Arthur lifts his hands to cup Merlin’s face (something he’s been wanting to do _forever,_ he thinks breathlessly). He can feel the slight press of all ten of Merlin’s fingertips on his thighs through his slacks.

“Arthur—” Merlin says breathlessly, and Arthur takes that as an affirmation. But when he leans in to kiss him, he feels not Merlin’s lips, but rather the rough skin of his fingers. Arthur opens his eyes and pulls back slightly to see Merlin’s palm facing him, the back of his fingers pressed against his own mouth.

“What?” is all Arthur asks, eyes blown wide with desire.

“Arthur,” Merlin repeats. There’s a pregnant pause before he continues quietly, “…I can’t.”

The look in his eyes contrasts completely from the words he’s saying, and Arthur can tell he’s conflicted. Arthur doesn’t want that; doesn’t want Merlin to struggle with his feelings, and the fact that he’s still heavy on his lap isn’t helping. He climbs off and stands up. Merlin stands up too, sad eyes still locked with Arthur’s confused ones. Arthur looks at him for another beat before the gears in his head start to spin and he realizes.

“Will,” Arthur utters.

Merlin nods once, slowly, as if he doesn’t want to.

“It’s…” Another pregnant pause. “It’s too soon.”

At this, Arthur deflates. His arms feel way too heavy at his sides, like they might fall off and thump on the navy blue carpet below at any second. He stares until Merlin finishes the thought Arthur can see him constructing in his head.

“I need time,” Merlin tells him. “I’m so fucking sorry, god, I’m so stupid.”

“Hey, no,” Arthur shakes his head and steps a bit closer, but not anywhere near as close as he wants to be. He shakes that thought off and grins a bit at Merlin reassuringly. “I’ve got time.”

“You—what?”

Arthur shrugs a shoulder like this doesn’t mean the world to him.

He repeats, “If there’s one thing I’ve got, Myrddin, it’s time.”

“I can’t ask that of you,” Merlin insists as he shakes his head. His dark hair quivers with the force of it. 

“You’re not asking. I’m offering.”

“I really want to kiss you,” Merlin admits, voice a bit watery, “but I know it wouldn’t feel right. Not just yet. And I mean, I _really_ do. But with you, it _needs_ to feel right. Shit, Arthur, look at you. You’re…you’re like a fucking dream. With your blond hair and your suits and your eyes and your jawline and, _shit_ ,” Merlin curses with vigor, “you don’t even realize it.”

Arthur’s cheeks heat up and he refuses to let his voice shake when he says, “I can wait.”

Merlin smiles, melancholy remaining in his eyes. He closes the gap between them and throws his arms around Arthur’s neck, hugging him tightly for the second time that day. He holds on like Arthur’s just told him he’s got a fatal disease and only has minutes before he succumbs.

Yeah, he can wait.  


* * *

  
There is happiness in him. There is happiness in him, but it’s just covered with a thick layer of shit. And Merlin’s the only person who can make that shit go away. In time, it will, and Arthur keeps telling himself this. It’s enough to get him through the next hellish week. He goes against his father’s dictation and sneaks off to Guinevere’s twice, grabbing lattes and seeing the progress Merlin’s making on his mural. It turns out to be not much because a friend of his has come into town, though Arthur has yet to meet him.

“We went to uni together,” Merlin had explained happily as he added an indistinguishable brown smudge to the coffee shop wall. “We’re good mates. I haven’t seen him in what’s probably been a year now, oh man, has it been that long? I think it has. Or maybe longer? Point is, I’m so fucking excited. And it’ll be nice to have someone in my flat, you know? It’s too quiet with just me.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Arthur quipped and Merlin shoved him over. “What’s he like?”

Merlin immediately laughed like he’d been told a joke and said, “He’s great. He’s loud and funny and good lord Arthur, you should see the man at the pub. He can certainly knock ‘em back. Just saying that reminds me of when we lived together.”

“You _lived_ with him?”

“Our last year in uni, yeah,” Merlin replied distractedly. He reached across Arthur to grab a tube of black paint and continued, “Will and I were so wrecked when he moved away. Come to think of it, the last time I saw Gwaine was at Will’s… Will’s funeral,” Merlin stopped to stare down at the ground for a second before blinking hard and looking back to Arthur, “So it’s not been a year. But still, it’ll be great to see him. And I mean that in a couple of ways. If you know what I mean.”

Merlin winked. Arthur raised his eyebrows.

“So you two…?” Arthur prompted and when Merlin didn’t catch on, Arthur had finished, “You two were together?”

“Good fucking god, no,” Merlin answered, laughing again. “But we’ve definitely shagged.”

“I didn’t need to know that.”

“I’m a classic over-sharer.”

“That, I already knew.”

Arthur would be lying if he said that in the past few days since that conversation he hadn’t sat at his desk thinking about this Gwaine character, and more specifically about where he was going to sleep in Merlin’s flat. There is no doubt that a grown man could in no way sleep on the love seat in Merlin’s living room. And the wood floors, though beautiful, wouldn’t exactly be a plausible place either. 

Then there’s Merlin’s giant bed. Arthur drums his fingers against his desk and they make dull thumping sounds. Arthur knows, (er, he’s about eighty percent sure) that nothing will happen between them, but the thought still makes him squirm. It just seems so unfair. Merlin has feelings for him, god only knows why, and yet some other guy is the one who gets to sleep in his bed with him. This is all levels of unfair, Arthur decides. He stops drumming his fingers when his father pokes his head through the open doorway, not even bothering to walk all the way in.

“I trust you’ll stay late to finish those forms I’ve outlined,” he says.

Arthur holds in his groan, but it’s difficult.

“Sure, yes,” he nods, and then Uther’s gone as quick as he’d arrived.

Naturally, he shut the door behind him and the ticking starts up. Arthur can’t bring himself to get up and go open it again, so he just grins and bears it (without the grinning part, of course). _Why_ had he promised his father he’d do this? He rubs his eyes and swipes his hand up to card through his hair frustratedly. Then he remembers; he’d said it in passing just to get Uther off his back as Arthur fled the building yesterday afternoon to go to Guinevere’s. _The things he does for coffee. And endearing young muralists._

In his dark office, the only light on is the small one atop his desk. It shines a nasty yellow color over his laptop keyboard as he types, the quiet clicks sometimes syncing up with the ticking. He could get up and turn on the luminescent lights above, but he feels by allowing him to see the rest of his office he’ll get distracted. No, better to just leave a spotlight on his computer; on his work. The job his father had assigned to him is nothing if not monotonous. Arthur thinks it seems more like a job for one of the cubicle working or at least his secretary. Perhaps his father is trying to ease him back into things. Immediately, he envisions his office as a giant crib. He wonders if, when Uther walks in, he imagines Arthur’s suits and slacks as merely an expensive diaper, and Arthur is just a hopeless, drooling toddler, rolling around his office-crib and shitting himself.

He could agree with the hopeless part. But the thing is, that feeling is starting to ebb away. He plucks a few paperclips from their little plastic holder at the corner of his desk and absently links them together as he thinks. He used to imagine his career at Pendragon Publishing as a slow ride on a very bumpy train, whirring and buzzing (and ticking, he thinks irritably) as it rolled down the tracks, destination unknown (or perhaps nonexistent?). Thick globs of black paint are slathered over the window next to Arthur’s seat. Yellow sunlight pries through a tiny scratch in the middle of it, begging to get in, but all Arthur can do it stare at it with glossy eyes. On said train, there is an open bar. But no matter how much he drinks, when he wakes up the next morning, the train is still grumbling its way to nowhere. And he can’t ever get off. The train makes no stops. There are no emergency stop levers or exit doors. And if there were, Arthur is sure he would’ve yanked it open and flung himself out onto the rocky countryside by now. _Free at last, free at last._

But, the point is that as of late, Arthur feels less hopeless. He feels less hopeless, but he wouldn’t say he feels hopeful. It’s like the gangly weed has finally disintegrated into the soil, but so far nothing has sprouted up to take its place. He feels void.

But it’s nothing compared to the way it used to be.

His thoughts stray to Merlin, as they often do these days. He thinks of his nice hands with long, lean fingers that Arthur may have had a couple dreams about in the past few weeks. He thinks of his blue eyes, like Arthur’s own and yet so much more, and the way they look when sunlight hits them. But mostly, Arthur thinks about the words Merlin says, and how he looks at him. Never has he ever met someone like Merlin; someone so open and expressive to contrast with Arthur’s introversion and disinterest. What is it about him that captures so much of Arthur’s attention in a way that nothing or no one has been able to do for the past decade; ever since this morbid train starting bumbling its way down the tracks?

He thinks about the way Merlin’s always tapping his fingertips against the skin of Arthur’s wrist or knee as they sit together on Merlin’s love seat and watch crap television. He rubs his own fingers over the soft skin of his wrist absently, searching for any sign that Merlin’s touch had ever been there. He envisions that soft, amused look Merlin’s always giving him for reasons Arthur can’t comprehend. In his head, he can see perfectly the shine of Merlin’s lower lip after he runs the tip of a pink tongue over it absentmindedly as he paints on smaller canvases. Arthur imagines the sad shine in Merlin’s eyes and the slight, two-degree tilt of his head when he wants to lean in, maybe wants to kiss Arthur or simply just be closer to him, knowing he can’t. Not can’t; won’t.

Arthur tries really hard not to resent Merlin’s dead ex-boyfriend, but it’s difficult when bitterness comes so easily to him. 

What truly matters, looking past all of the lust and longing and unrequited feelings—wait, they’re not unrequited, though, are they? Often, Arthur forgets this—is that Arthur isn’t looking toward the future with such adamant distaste. In the past months since he’s met Merlin, his never-ending train ride seems less daunting. Now, the train makes several stops a day so that Arthur can venture outside into the sunlight and regather himself. At these stops, perhaps there’s a quaint little café. Maybe they make killer lattes. Perhaps a beautiful young brunet stands at one of the walls inside, long limbs swiping paintbrushes across it in an alarmingly precise manner. Maybe Arthur’s a little bit in love with him.

When he looks back down, Arthur’s connected—he counts them—exactly thirty-two paperclips. Their dull silver shines unimpressively under the yellow lamplight. He tosses the chain behind him on the couch and presses two fingertips to each of his temples, trying to redirect his thoughts toward the computer screen in front of him. It glares at him menacingly. After a deep breath, he starts to type again.

It’s been yet another grueling hour of numbers and typing when there’s a soft knock at his closed door. It could only be his father.

“I’ve almost finished,” Arthur says, voice dull and tired.

Uther stands in his doorway, black coat slung over his arm. He looks concernedly at Arthur for a moment before flipping on the fluorescents overhead. Arthur had completely forgotten he’d been sitting in near-darkness. He brings his cramping hands up to rub at his eyelids until he sees stars. He hears his father’s shoes shuffle a bit on the carpet.

“Good, good,” Uther replies, pleased. “Morgana says hello.”

“She called?” Arthur asks, looking over.

“We met for dinner.”

“What?” Arthur pushes back a bit from his desk to turn his chair toward the doorway.

Uther furrows his brow but says nothing.

“You went out to dinner with Morgana?” Arthur repeats. His voice is edged with vexation as he continues, “Did you ever consider that maybe I wanted to see her, too?”

“I don’t appreciate your tone,” Uther stands up straighter, eyes narrowing.

Irritation and hatred bubbles under Arthur’s skin viciously and he flies out of his chair, standing up. It makes a sharp noise as it’s pushed back forcibly against his desk. The tiny lamp teeters but does not fall. Arthur glares at his father, willing him to burst into flames. Uther remains in the doorway, waiting for his son’s inevitable explosion.

“Let me try and understand this,” Arthur starts, hands balling into fists at his sides. “You were out to a lovely family dinner with my sister, who I haven’t seen in _years_ , and meanwhile you’ve got me locked up in my office for _hours_ ,” Arthur bites down on the emphasized word, teeth gritting together, “doing a week’s worth of bloody secretary’s work!”

“Recently, it’s the only kind of work you can do properly,” Uther chides.

Arthur’s taken aback. And here, he thought he was doing better at his job in the past couple months. No, he _had_ been, he truly had. He should’ve known that that wouldn’t be enough for Uther. Blue disappointment washes over red anger in waves as he stands there, for the first time feeling small in his giant office.

“And as for Morgana,” Uther’s saying, voice raised, “you know bloody well you could see her anytime you wished. Don’t pretend to care about her now only to justify your unwarranted aggravation towards me,”

“I care about her!” Arthur objects.

“Right,” Uther scoffs, “You care about her just like you care about your career, is that it?”

Arthur lets out a short but shaky breath, scowling at his father in a way he hasn’t since he was a teenager. Just the way Uther stands there, tall and entitled like he knows he’s right (and he just might be), makes Arthur want to take a few quick strides and hit him square in the face. He instantaneously wonders if he could hear the ticking over the sound of Uther’s jaw breaking.

“There are other things to care about besides your precious company,” Arthur forces through gritted teeth, because it’s something his father needs to hear.

“Please, enlighten me,” Uther requests condescendingly, “Enlighten both of us, seeing as you have yet to invest yourself in anything besides sitting around your house like a shut-in.”

There was a time when Arthur would jump at an opportunity like this; the chance to tell his father about his life and the things that are important to him. He thinks back to when he first started, his suits a little too big and his tone a little too eager. He remembers sitting stiffly in a chair across from Uther’s desk and rambling about the things that were happening in his life; a new girlfriend, a custom sofa that he ordered four months ago had finally arrived, he was thinking about maybe joining a football team. All the while his father would only hum, eyes not leaving his computer as he clicked away at its keyboard. Yes, there was once a time when he would take advantage of this opportunity. But now, he doesn’t want his father to know anything about him.

“You don’t even know me,” Arthur says in the same tone he might use to tell a child that their goldfish had gone belly-up. “When’s the last time you cared about something, some _one_ other than this goddamn company?” He throws his arms up, gesturing at the goddamn company in question.

Uther says nothing, only stands there looking like a man in battle who’s armor’s been taken off midway through. He looks feeble, as if he’d aged twenty years in the last three minutes. For some reason, this only makes Arthur angrier. Red flashes behind his eyes again, drowning out the blue that had made its way in just before.

“So you can send the rest of those forms to my secretary,” Arthur decides, leaning over to slam down the lid to his laptop. When he glares swiftly back at his father, he flinches. _Good,_ Arthur thinks. “Or better yet,” he adds, “you can do them your-fucking-self.”

Arthur grabs his phone, keys, and wallet off his desk and pushes past his father, out the door. He leaves his laptop and briefcase, knowing he won’t need them; can’t bear to look at them at the moment. He’s almost about to round the corner to where the lifts are when he hears his fathers speak up.

“You will _not_ disrespect me like this!” Uther’s shouting. He’s moved just outside of Arthur’s doorway and now stands in front of Sharon’s desk. “I am your _boss_!” 

At this, Arthur turns around and looks at him. For a beat, there’s only silence. Arthur shakes his head.

“No. You’re my dad. But it’s obvious you’ve forgotten that,” he growls.

Then, Arthur turns the corner and his father disappears from view. He stomps down all thirteen flights of stairs because he doesn’t feel like standing still. As he gets into his car he feels inexplicably lighter and yet completely empowered, as if he could successfully floss with power lines. He drives in silence, his thoughts drowning out anything that might have been resounding from the radio anyway. His suit feels too tight. It’s suffocating him. Immediately, Arthur empathizes with the packages of blood sausages he sees on the cooking channel. Fleeting cooking channel thoughts aside, he can feel the dull drumming of fury in his ribcage. It grows stronger with every mile of road that passes underneath the car in a dark blur. By the time he turns off the ignition and climbs out, he’s just as angry as when he left his office. His father’s words and his own ring in his ears like demented bells as he walks to the door. The bright moonlight reflecting off the glass makes Arthur squint.

Unsurprisingly, he ends up at Guinevere’s.

 


	2. Chapter 2

He pounds on the door with a flat palm until it opens slowly.

“Fuck’s sake,” Merlin groans, “just come the fuck in.”

Arthur slips into the dark lobby and is ready to burst, but stops when he turns around. Merlin’s flipped on just one of the bulbs over the fireplace and now is standing there in the middle of the room in a hoodie and his boxer-briefs. The dim light creates shadows on his face, stretching from his prominent cheekbones towards the bridge of his nose. Only his fingertips pop out from the end of his sleeves, slightly curled inward. Merlin reaches one hand up to rub at his eye like a sleepy cat. Arthur wouldn’t be surprised if he slept curled up in a ball.

“Myrddin.” 

The word comes out of Arthur’s mouth involuntarily.

“What is it?” Merlin asks blearily, walking closer.

“…My father.”

Merlin reaches for his jeans that are strewn over the back of the couch and slips them on. He has to hop a few times to get into the tight denim, a task Arthur knows is routine for him. Nonetheless, it does its part to make Arthur’s heart beat just a little bit faster. Merlin zips them up but doesn’t bother to fasten the button. Then, he sits down in the very middle of the couch.

Very calmly, he says, “Go.”

As Arthur wildly regales his story, Merlin sits silently with his knees pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them. He nods and nods and hums at the appropriate parts but doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t try to put things into his own words like some people would. He just listens and lets Arthur say whatever he needs to. When his rage clouds Arthur’s head and he blanks on the words he wants to use, Merlin waits patiently until he finds them.  Arthur eventually finishes, huffing out breaths and leaning over to put his hands on his bent knees. Anger takes quite a lot out of him, it seems. But Arthur realizes that this particular wrath had been a long time coming. He looks up at Merlin through golden bangs that had fallen over his forehead after one of the many times he had frustratedly pulled at his hair while ranting.

“That _fucking_ bastard,” Merlin finally comments, face scrunched up with distaste.

“I fucking know,” Arthur shouts and throws his arms out to his sides.

“He had to have known an argument like that was coming. He’s been working you to the bone, Arthur, that prick,” Merlin tells him with vigor. “Can’t he tell you’ve got no interest in that work anymore?”

“He can,” Arthur answers, flopping down in one of the armchairs. “But he doesn’t want to believe it. He thinks he can give me a couple days off and by the next week I’ll be raring to go, chipper as ever, with my complete and utter disinterest completely gone. Like goddamn magic.” Arthur sighs and lets his head fall back against the chair.

He closes his eyes and asks, “What do you think?”

“I think you’re kind of sexy when you're pissed off,” Merlin grins.

If it were anyone else, Arthur might have taken that as a cue. But instead, he remains seated and feels his heart develop weight like its turned into lead. He fingers clench at the blue leather of the armrests.

“Don’t do that,” he scolds.

Merlin’s grin vanishes and meekly, he replies, “Sorry.”

The air is heavy between them for a long second before Merlin speaks up again.

“You know what I’m going to say.”

“I should quit,” Arthur supplies immediately. He then lets out a mirthless laugh and says, “If I know my father, I’m probably already fired.”

He opens his eyes and looks at Merlin seriously.

“I mean, Myrddin, I’ve _never_ spoken to him that way. In my entire life.”

“Why do you call me by my last name?”

“Huh?”

Merlin repeats, “You call me Myrddin. No one else does that.”

Arthur thinks. 

“…I don’t know,” he answers after a minute. “I guess I just like it.”

Merlin smiles widely, showing all his teeth and says, “I like your last name too. But Arthur’s shorter. I’ve been wondering about that for a while. Isn’t it mad how we can question something for such a long time and then, when we finally ask it, it has no real answer?”

Arthur grins fondly at Merlin’s musings and asks, “Did you think I had some big, elaborate reason?”

“You’re a pretty strange bloke,” Merlin nods harmlessly, “I wouldn’t put it past you.”

Arthur nods back in agreement. His eyes slide down to a crumpled comforter on the ground, evidently kicked off the couch when he’d made Merlin get up to let him in. A big, white pillow rests against the left armchair of the couch, a slight indent in the middle of it. Then his eyes slide back to Merlin; up his arm and across his face to study his untraditionally messy hair.

“I’ve got a question,” Arthur decides.

Merlin perks up.

“Why is it that you sleep here sometimes?”

Merlin sort of relaxes back into the couch as if someone had let the air out of him. Then he straightens his legs before him and swings around to lie his head down on his pillow. He bends his knees and stares up at the ceiling, absentmindedly fingering the cuff of his pant leg. Arthur lets him think.

Finally, Merlin answers, “It’s just that, at night… My flat feels too empty. It’s too quiet.”

“I understand that,” says Arthur, watching Merlin’s fingers pull at the denim by his ankle.

“It’s so easy to be reminded of his absence when I’m there.” He speaks of Will, Arthur knows. He knows just by the tone Merlin uses; soft and small, as if speaking to a baby rabbit. “I’m completely fine during the day, but when it gets dark out…I don’t know. The bed feels too big. I reach out for someone who’s not there.”

Immediately, Arthur is plagued by a deep sadness. It permeates his bones and pushes him further into the blue armchair, pinning him. Merlin refuses to look his way and instead focuses on the wall across from him; his mural. Most of the expanse remains white while the bottom corner is swiped with mixes of various earth-tone colors. Despite that, Arthur is fairly certain Merlin still has no idea what he’s going to paint just yet. For a moment, Arthur wonders how Gwen feels about the large, shit-colored blob that resides on the wall of her shop.

“I know my flat is tiny,” Merlin zips and unzips his hoodie, “but when I’m there alone, it feels enormous.” _Zzzzzzzp. Zzzzzzzzzzzp._

“I know how that feels,” Arthur nods, thinking of his dark, giant house. 

Less than half of the rooms in it actually see human activity. His bedroom, living room, and bathroom are the only rooms he ever finds himself in. He barely even uses his kitchen, save for microwaving frozen dinners and grabbing water bottles from the refrigerator. At most, he’s in there for three minutes at a time. He feels like he’s neglecting his house, like it’s a slobbering puppy and he’s tied it to a post outside the airport. He wonders if the people who walk by it on the street look up at it and think, _that poor thing_. He squirms in his chair.

“I can’t even imagine,” Merlin’s saying. He looks over to Arthur at last and continues, “Your house is probably, like, sixteen of my flats put together.”

“Hard to believe you’ve never seen it,” Arthur thinks aloud.

Merlin lifts himself up on an elbow so he can meet Arthur’s gaze properly. He grins toothily and waits for Arthur to catch up. Arthur doesn’t.

“Let’s go!” Merlin chants, flinging himself off the couch.

“What?” 

Arthur sits up straighter and Merlin hops over the coffee table to stand in front of him.

“Your trousers,” Arthur points.

“Woops, forgot about that,” Merlin laughs as he finally buttons his jeans. He pushes his hoodie up as he does so and Arthur catches a glimpse of flat, white skin. He instantly blinks and looks up at Merlin’s face. Merlin beams and puts both his hands on Arthur’s knees, leaning on him.

“Come on, let’s go,” he’s insisting, and Arthur, well…Arthur is the last person to ever deny Merlin something he wants. One look at his blue eyes, shadowed in the dim light by unimaginably long eyelashes and Arthur is reaching for his keys.  
  


* * *

  
Walking into the dark of his house is infinitely less daunting when Merlin is right at his back, fingers clenching Arthur’s jacket and definitely creasing the material. 

“It’s kind of scary,” Merlin whispers over Arthur’s shoulder.

“Why are you whispering?” Arthur’s voice echoes off of the ample marble surfaces of his foyer.

“Oh my god! Did you hear that? Wait, let me try. Hell _ooo_ ,” Merlin calls. 

Sure enough, it echoes again. With all the enthusiasm of an eight-year-old, Merlin slaps his hands happily against Arthur’s back. Arthur grins to himself and leans over to flip on the lights. Usually, he’d only turn one on but for Merlin’s sake, he flips all five of the switches on the wall panel. The hall illuminates.

“Holy shit,” Arthur breathes.

“What? Is something wrong?!” Merlin hides behind him again, alarmed.

“No, no,” Arthur assures and turns back to stare into his house. “I just…I had completely forgotten how bright this place could get.”

“And we’re only in the front room!” Merlin supplies gleefully.

Watching Merlin sprint around his house from room to room is one of the most amusing things Arthur’s ever seen. He’s like a kid in a candy shop. He pushes any button he can possibly find, shrieking when he’d found the one that activates the thunderous garbage disposal in the kitchen (Arthur had lost it, doubling over laughing while Merlin shoved him pathetically and pouted, not-so-secretly pleased). Merlin runs his hands across the walls as he walks down the hallways and checks the water pressure at each and every sink, bathtub, and shower. Arthur watches him intently the entire way as if taking copious mental notes for an unforeseen experiment.

“Is this your bedroom?” Merlin asks, tentatively pushing the door open.

“Yes.”

Merlin raises his eyebrow and smirks, “So this is where it all goes down.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and Merlin takes a running leap and dive-bombs onto his bed, landing gently on the giant fluffy mass that is Arthur’s blankets. He then rolls himself off of them and shoves the pile to the ground. He arches around on the mattress until he gets comfortable and then sighs. Arthur remains in the doorway, watching with a fond hint of a smile. He walks over and sits down near Merlin’s head.

“So,” Merlin starts casually, “who’s the last person you fucked in this bed?”

“What?!” Arthur squawks. 

“C’mon, tell me.”

“No. We’re not talking about this,” Arthur dictates, holding his hand up.

“That’s no fun,” Merlin pouts. He shimmies his shoulders deeper into the mattress and coos. “I love this bed. Wanna trade?”

Arthur scoffs, “Your bed is so much better than this one.”

“Is not.”

“It definitely is.”

Merlin swats his knee. “You’re supposed to say ‘is too’!”

“You’re a child.”

“But really, this bed is great. Mine’s too big.”

“Because you’re so tiny,” Arthur comments.

Merlin argues, “I’m tall!”

“Yes,” Arthur agrees, “but you’re…gangly.”

“ _Gangly!_ ” Merlin shouts and sits up, his knee pressing into Arthur’s side.

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way!”

“Oh, right,” Merlin rolls his eyes, “I guess you meant gangly in a _good_ way. My mistake. Cheers.”

“Oh, come on. You know I think you’re…Well, you know how…” Arthur stammers, immediately regretting starting this sentence. Merlin waits, staring at him expectantly with big, mockingly innocent eyes. 

“I mean, you— there’s—” Arthur struggles, gesturing wildly with his hands.

“ _Christ_ , you’re hopeless,” Merlin moans and flops down on his back again to stare at the ceiling. Out from under Merlin’s gaze, Arthur relaxes.

“Er—I know,” he replies lamely.

Merlin barks out a laugh, cheerful as ever. He taps his socked foot against Arthur’s side so Arthur’ll turn and look at him.

“I think you’re…well, you know how…too,” Merlin mocks, changing his tone to match Arthur’s and everything. “But I mean, who wouldn’t?”

Arthur’s cheeks burn hot and he looks away quickly, an automatic grin on his lips. He knows Merlin finds him attractive, but actually saying it out loud (well, sort of) makes Arthur twitch. At once, his insecurities flare up wildly and then turn to smoke. He feels Merlin’s eyes on his back and he suddenly feels the need to change out of his suit. 

“Next room?” Merlin asks, sitting up again. Arthur’s grateful for the change of subject and feels the air rush back into the room. His bedroom. His bedroom, where Merlin sits. On his bed.

“Yes, ” Arthur nods feverishly and stands up, “next room awaits.”  
  


* * *

  
Eventually, Merlin and Arthur find themselves in the library. Upon entering, Arthur is hit with a wave of nostalgia so strong he has to sit down in the singular overstuffed mustache chair that resides there.

“I used to spend hours and _hours_ in here,” he remembers.

Merlin slowly walks along the room’s perimeter, running his fingers up and down the countless book spines. When Arthur speaks, he turns to look at him.

“I’m sure I’ve read at least three-quarters of these.”

“There’s no way,” Merlin challenges. 

He spins around to inspect the high, cherrywood shelves that line every wall of the room. The wheeled ladder makes a tortured sound as Merlin moves it to look at the books hidden behind it. Arthur stands up with great effort and comes over to join him.

“I’d sit in here and read constantly.”

Merlin side-eyes him.

“What changed?”

Arthur furrows his brow. “Work, I guess.”

He prepares himself for another one of Merlin’s fervent comments about his job, but nothing comes. Merlin’s walked on and is staring intently at something. Arthur wonders what spine of which book could possibly hold his attention for so long and wanders over. He sees the corner of a golden picture frame from over Merlin’s shoulder as he approaches and all at once, Arthur remembers. The frame may be a bit cracked and the glass may be covered in a thin layer of dust, but the portrait is still easily visible.

“It’s—”

“Your mother,” Merlin finishes, his eyes not straying from her. Merlin answers Arthur’s unvoiced question, “I see a lot of you in her.”

Arthur remains silent. He can’t believe he’d forgotten about her in here. For years, he’d let the many unused rooms of this house collect dust, not caring whether or not one day he’d have to sweep it all up. He plucks the small frame from the shelf with careful fingers. Her sapphire eyes look up at him from the paper, loving and forgiving. His eyes follow the small curl of blonde hair down her shoulder.

“She’s gorgeous,” Merlin compliments. Then, “When did you lose her?”

Arthur lifts his head to look at him.

“I can tell by the way you’re staring,” Merlin glances to the photo and then back at Arthur, “I myself am pretty much an expert at staring longingly at photographs as of late.”

The corners of Arthur’s lips fall toward the floor and when Merlin’s palm comes up to rest heavily between his shoulder blades, he leans into the touch. He feels sorry for both of them; more Merlin than himself. Merlin’s wounds are fresh and bleeding; dripping with redness that he wants no one to touch, no one to get too close to, not even Arthur. Merlin’s afraid Arthur will stain. Every time Arthur looks at him for just a little too long, or feels his heart vibrate at the way Merlin says his name, Arthur can see himself dousing those wounds in salt. 

In contrast, Arthur’s wounds are clean and scabbed over, the way they’ve been for a long, long time. Of course and over decades, new ones have formed and Arthur knows that there are more to come in the future. But he doesn’t care about his wounds. He cares about Merlin’s. He longs to heal them, to press his hands to them with enough blazing passion to cauterize. He feels as if all of the warm and important things he has neglected to feel for the past few years have just been building up somewhere unknown inside him, waiting for their opportunity to arise. This, _Merlin,_ is their opportunity, certainly. Arthur can feel it.

“Arthur?” Merlin asks softly. Something inside Arthur flutters.

“I was a child,” Arthur answers finally, “I hardly knew her.”

Merlin nods slowly, hand coming up to hold the other side of the frame. He raises his free arm and swipes the sleeve of his hoodie over the glass, clearing away the dust. Their bodies curve toward each other as they stare. When Arthur moves to set the frame back on the shelf, Merlin lets go of it delicately.

“But I know I loved her,” Arthur decides. He grins at Merlin easily.

In turn, Merlin smiles back.

“Next room?” he asks, jabbing his thumb toward the door.

Merlin beams in agreement and they shuffle out of the library. For the first time in forever, Arthur leaves the light on and the door wide open.  
  


* * *

  
Merlin goes to sleep on Arthur’s couch with his blanket and pillow he’d brought from the shop. He pulls the covers up to his chin and stares at Arthur who’s across the room standing by the light switch.

“Sweet dreams, sweet stuff,” Merlin says. It’s muffled by the blanket.

“Sweet dreams,” Arthur says back.

He turns out the light and steps his way through the familiar darkness down the hall to his bedroom. He undresses very slowly. Moonlight slips through the slats of his blinds and creates a pattern on the opposing wall. He stares at the faint white lines as he lies in bed (he’d had to pick the comforters off the ground from where Merlin had dumped them earlier). They smell like him and it’s killing Arthur. So close and yet so far. Just knowing Merlin’s in the room down the hall makes him feel restless and unsatisfied, flipping over an infinite amount of times in fruitless attempts to get comfortable. He eventually gives up and lies on his back to stare vacantly at the ceiling. His mind churns.

He thinks about his father and how he’s now placed an ocean between the two of them where there had already been a fjord. He wonders how he can ever take what he said back, or if he even wants to. He doesn’t make a decision and instead lets himself fume over their conversation, eyes squinting with frustration. His stare softens when his thoughts drift to his mother, the greener limb of his family tree; greener, alive, and hanging with the fruit of love, of generosity, of compassion. A chilly wind blows through the branch that is his father. The bare, brittle limbs crack and drop to the ground with even the slightest alteration.

Arthur finds his mouth dry. He sits up in bed, not a fraction more tired than he was when he first laid down hours ago. He stands up and heads for his door. He could get a glass of water from the bathroom that’s connected to his bedroom, but he’d rather go to the kitchen. He doesn’t even pretend that it’s not because he wants to walk by Merlin. Maybe he’s awake too, just as miserable as him. Maybe Arthur would sit down at the end of the couch and Merlin would put his feet in his lap and they’d talk right on through the night about anything and everything, like they do in movies, until the sun shone down on them irritatingly from the overhead skylight. 

While trying to walk out of his door, Arthur’s bare foot connects with something soft. There’s a dark, shadowy mass at his feet and he squints to try and see it. He opens his bedroom door a bit farther and the moonlight reveals that it’s Merlin, all curled up with his blanket and pillow right outside Arthur’s door, and Arthur’s just kicked him in the stomach. Amazingly, Merlin doesn’t even flinch. Arthur stares. Most of his face is shoved into his pillow, but Arthur can see the outline of Merlin’s nose against the white cloth. 

He feels instantly guilty, pulling his eyebrows together. _Shit_ , he should’ve known that Merlin being isolated in one of the many rooms in Arthur’s huge, dark house would be just like if he had been alone in his own flat. He’d been too busy tending to the distance that Merlin insists on keeping between them (physically, at least) that he hadn’t even thought about it. He watches the blanket rise and fall once more with Merlin’s breathing and then looks away, cheeks burning. Arthur thumbs absently at the waistband of his boxers, still standing in the doorway, and silently scolds himself. He can’t just watch Merlin sleep; it’s too intimate. And yet, there Merlin is, beautiful and sleeping and clearly wanting to be closer to Arthur. The hardwood floor of the hallway is probably going to make his back ache by morning. But if Arthur wakes him up, where is Merlin to go? Is Arthur to exile him back to the living room? Or offer his bed, with him in it? No, Arthur decides immediately, not letting himself expand on that thought. He can’t, won’t put Merlin in that position. Arthur knows that it’s dead Will that Merlin reaches out for in his giant bed at night, not him. 

Merlin’s huddled so close to the doorway that Arthur would have to make a great effort to step over him, so he doesn’t. Instead, he opens the door fully and retreats back to his bed. He doesn’t even bother to go to his bathroom to get water from the sink. Arthur’s suddenly exhausted. 

He promptly falls asleep to the distant soundtrack of Merlin’s quiet breathing.  
  


* * *

  
Arthur jolts awake with heat all up and down his back, wondering when on earth he’d put a paper shredder in his bedroom. He grumbles automatically and tries to pull the blankets up, maybe to cover his ears, but they won’t budge. It takes him another minute of lying there to realize the heat at his back is moving; closer, then further. Closer, then further. No, not moving, breathing. There is a living, breathing, _overheating_ paper shredder in bed with him. He slowly turns over on his back and out from the bundle of covers ( _all_ of the covers, Arthur thinks bitterly) pokes the purple color of Merlin’s hoodie.

He thinks three things: _when, thank God I’m not hard right now,_ and _he should set a doctors appointment for that godawful snoring._ Arthur is ninety percent certain that snoring like that is not humanly possible.

He slips out of bed quietly, not that Merlin would be able to hear much of anything over himself. He pads to the bathroom and relieves himself. He does his morning routine; showering and teeth brushing and shaving. He happily rubs a fluffy white towel over his hair and wraps another around his waist. He’d completely forgotten Merlin was there until he peruses back into his bedroom to get dressed and instantly grins fondly at the young man’s sleeping form. He’s shuffled around a bit so his snoring is muffled slightly by the comforters. Still, Arthur still hasn’t heard anything like it in his life. 

He sorts through his dresser and selects a pair of trousers. They aren’t one of the normal pairs that Arthur’s taken to wearing, but then again, nothing about this morning is normal. He then walks to his wardrobe and picks out a button-up and a jacket, slinging them over the door as he leans down to pluck some pants from the drawer below. He drops the towel to put them on and then reaches for his shirt, buttoning it expertly. 

“Nice,” Arthur hears as he’s stepping into his slacks.

He spins around quickly and sure enough, Merlin’s peering up at him from the bed, a dopey smile on his lips. Arthur blinks at him, speechless. Merlin’s smile disappears instantly and he sits up a bit.

“Did I say that out loud?” he asks.

Arthur cocks his head, “Were you _watching_ me change?” His eyes widen. “Oh god, how long have you been awake?”

“Long enough,” Merlin answers, but it’s not in his usual vivacious tone. He sounds… _worried._ He’s four years old and his mother’s just walking in on him stealing from the biscuit tin an hour before supper.

“Oh god,” Arthur says again, cheeks flushing.

Panic is set in his voice as Merlin stammers, “No, Arthur, wait, I—”

He stops and follows Arthur’s eyes to a specific tenting in the covers around Merlin’s waist. 

There’s a certain amazement in Arthur’s voice when he points out, “You’re—”

“Fuck,” Merlin says immediately, color rising in his cheeks as well.

“Fuck!” Merlin repeats, louder this time. He flings himself out of Arthur’s bed and exits the room. Arthur hears the familiar click of the hallway bathroom door closing.

“Holy shit,” Arthur mutters to himself.

The thing is, he shouldn’t be surprised. But after months of having to censor his own thoughts and keep his eyes to himself, it’s odd to learn that perhaps Merlin had been doing the same thing. He fastens his trousers and wonders if Merlin has dreams about him, too. He’s not sure he’d want to know the answer. He takes Merlin’s reaction as a compliment, sure, but it makes him wonder why they are doing this to themselves. Then he remembers; Merlin is a man who is reaching out for a ghost. For someone who isn’t there, when Arthur is. He makes himself remember that Merlin is probably struggling in some of the same ways he is. _It can’t be easy on him either._

He shrugs into his blazer and walks slowly to the hallway bathroom.

“Myrddin?”

Merlin opens the door and is looking back at Arthur with wide, guilty eyes.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he says. He leans his head against the doorframe and continues, “I shouldn’t have come in your room last night. But I just, I mean, I was so far away from you and I kept thinking about how you were lying there all warm and alone, just like I was, and I. I shouldn’t have come in.”

“I was hoping you would,” Arthur confesses, eyes locked onto the zipper of Merlin’s hoodie. He can’t look up, doesn’t want to see Merlin’s reaction when he says, “This is a strange situation.”

“I know,” Merlin nods. He lifts his hand to press it so gently against Arthur’s chest.

“But I told you I would wait.”

“Arthur, I,” Merlin sighs, “I want you so badly. You have no idea.”

Arthur’s breath hitches. Merlin moves his hand from Arthur’s chest to run his fingers along the doorframe, eyes looking somewhere near Arthur’s knees. Arthur watches his fingers as they slide over the glossy wood.

“You have no idea what you're like,” Merlin goes on breathlessly, “I think about you all the time. I think about your arms…what it would be like to be in them. And your mouth,” Merlin opens his own mouth like he’s going to continue on that point but then stops. The corners of his lips turn up as he adds, “And your stupid goddamn suits.”

“I like my suits,” Arthur grins, glad for the tension to be lifted a bit. 

“Oh, I do too,” Merlin nods. He brings his hands up to pull at the lapels of Arthur’s blazer and then drops them again as if he’s been burned. “You’re so bloody hot, you’re making this way more difficult for me than it needs to be,” Merlin teases. 

The playful lilt has finally returned to his voice and Arthur lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Arthur grins; a real, genuine smile and Merlin looks up at him seriously, all amusement vanished from his face. Arthur waits expectantly for the bottom line.

“That’s why this is so difficult. Obviously, I want you to fuck me senseless," —at this, Arthur’s eyes go wider as saucers and his mind spins like a top; only Merlin could deliver a line like that in such a no-nonsense tone and get away with it—  “but that’s not all I want from you.”

“It’s not all I want, either,” Arthur says difficultly. He’s finding it hard to breathe, let alone speak.

“I want to be _with_ you. All of you. That’s why we can’t…” Merlin point to himself and then back at Arthur a few times and then goes on, “We can’t start one part of our relationship before the other. This is important to me, and I need to do this right. With you. I need to do this right with you.”

Arthur ponders what it is about himself that makes Merlin want this. He’s grouchy, he’s overworked, he’s obsessively clean and socially inept, and not to mention his cynicism. His eyes dart back and forth from Merlin’s left shoulder to his right one as he thinks. Merlin is exciting and generous and sociable and outrageous; what on earth does a person like him see in Arthur? Then Arthur contemplates, maybe they want to be together because they each have what the other lacks. It’s like Merlin is the part of himself that is unavailable, unreachable; the part of him that has shut down until further notice. 

“Did I freak you out?” Merlin snaps his fingers in front of Arthur’s face.

“God, no,” Arthur shakes his head with feeling, “I can do that. I can definitely do that.”

Merlin beams brighter than the sun outside could ever, ever manage.

“I’m hard for you, you’re hard for me, blah blah blah,” Merlin says cheerfully. “Glad we got that out in the open. Permission to dream about you?”

“Permission granted.”

“Good, good,” Merlin’s nodding. “Now move outta the doorway, I’m dying to make some damn scrambled eggs.”  
  


* * *

  
The next couple weeks at work are unusual. Every time he has to walk by his father’s office to get to the copier or the vending machines for a soda, his fists clench at his sides involuntarily. It seems that they both are trying to out-ignore the other; not a word has been exchanged between the two of them since their argument. In staff meetings, Arthur glares at Uther’s crinkled forehead and receding hairline. Uther’s taken to giving Sharon messages and she often pops her head into his office to relay the information. 

“Okay, thanks,” Arthur replies robotically every time.

Nine times out of ten he ignores whatever it is his father wants in favor of going through the spam folder on his email. They’re mostly advertisements: _Canadian Webstore Exclusive Mall 29% Off, Get new apps for your Mac, Lose 15 lbs in 2 weeks!_ Arthur goes down the list, his finger constantly swiping over the trackpad. He may not be doing any work, but at least he’s at the office. That counts for something, right?

“What page are you on now?” Mithian asks from over his shoulder.

“Ninety,” Arthur sighs, eyes not leaving his computer screen.

“Why don’t you just go home? Just tell Sharon to tell your dad that you’re still here. It’s not like he’s gonna come in here, anyway.”

Arthur had told Mithian about the debacle; or rather, she dragged it out of him after seeing Arthur almost break a pen in half while staring daggers at his father’s office door. She’d sympathized and patted him on the back. She’d even run down to Guinevere’s on her break to bring him back a coffee, which he sips at as he turns around in his chair to look at her. He would go home, but he doesn’t know what he’d do there. At least being here gives him the illusion of productivity. 

He shrugs at Mithian as a way of answering.

“Or go hang out with that bloke from the coffee shop who’s so keen on you,” she grins, “Merlin.”

“I see you’ve made yourself acquainted with the staff there,”

Mithian rolls her eyes, “I’m only there getting you coffees like, four times a week.”

Arthur spins back around to face his computer and clicks on the next email: _Every photo app you need—free!_ He brings his free hand up to adjust his tie.

“He’s probably busy. He’s got a friend in town.”

“Is he cute?”

“I don’t know. Why is that the first thing you ask?”

“Because cute people customarily hang out with other cute people.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows, amused. He turns back around to look over at her on the couch.

“You think Merlin’s cute?”

Mithian throws her shiny brown hair over her shoulder and says, “Yeah, totally. Have you _seen_ him? The tight pants aren’t really my thing but with legs like his, it’s not such a tragedy. He’s too skinny for me, I think—”

“Christ,” Arthur interjects, “I just asked if you thought he was cute.”

“I know,” Mithian grins, cat-like. “You’re like a gossiping schoolgirl.”

“I was only curious!”

“And why’s that?”

Arthur ignores the follow-up and turns back around. He clicks to page ninety-one. 

Mithian goes on, “He’s a bit eccentric, though, don’t you think so? In a good way, I mean. Hopping over the counters and doing that whip cream finger thing when attractive blokes come in—”

“Oh my god,” Arthur breathes out a laugh.

He laughs but can’t help but feel a bit resentful toward the people Mithian speaks of. The resentment soon fades in favor of a distinct craving for whipped cream. And Merlin. In a second, Mithian’s left her place on his couch and stands at his side, leaning on the hand she’s placed on the desk. When he looks up at her, she’s raising an eyebrow at him and grinning.

“Are you shagging him?” she asks, delighted.

“What?” Arthur sputters.

“The painter. Are you shagging him?”

Arthur huffs, “I hardly see how that’s any of your business.”

“Come on, mate,” she whines, “I told _you_ when I got with that French intern!”

“That was one-hundred percent unsolicited. In fact I remember me telling you to leave my office after each and every sentence of that story. And yet you remained.”

She smirks at him and Arthur has a feeling that no matter the answer he’d give her, she’d be skeptical. Arthur keeps staring at her silently as an indication that he’s not going to continue. She points a finger at him and starts to walk backward toward the door.

“You’re lucky I’ve got a meeting to go to,” she tells him.

She spins around and exits, closing the door behind her.

_Tick, tick, tick._  
  


* * *

  
By Friday, Arthur’s literally pacing the floor just waiting for five o’clock to come. He is fed up with his office and this building and his laptop and to be honest, he sort of just wants things to go back to normal. He hasn’t seen Merlin all week, he realizes, and that has to be what’s got him so out of sorts. He’s also sick of avoiding his father’s eyes in meetings and debating whether to say anything as he walks by the open door of his office on the way to the restroom. He never does and it makes him feel pathetic. Most of Arthur’s wrath has faded by now, but he won’t deny that parts of their fight still come into his head while he’s lying in bed at night. At the time, the things he said seemed necessary and truthful but now he just feels like an ass. To be fair, Uther hasn’t made an effort to speak to him either. So they’re both terrible. Arthur chalks it up to Pendragon stubbornness.

It’s almost time to leave when Sharon knocks on his door before opening it gently.

“Sir, Mr. Myrddin is here,” she says with such obvious distaste that Arthur laughs.

Merlin strolls in a second after, not waiting for the all-clear. Sharon ducks out with a grimace.

“I’ve missed you all week, shithead,” Merlin grins, plopping down in one of the small black armchairs in front of Arthur’s desk. He puts his feet up on the glass and crosses his legs at the ankles. Arthur furrows his brow. 

“I thought you’d be running around with Gwaine. I didn’t want to impose.”

“Impose?” Merlin laughs, “No way. I’ve been waiting for you to come into the shop. Gwaine’s been running me ragged,”—he pauses to yawn—“I think I’ve been to every pub within a ten mile radius within the last four days.”

“Having a blast, I assume.”

“Definitely. But it’d be more fun if you were there.”

“I really doubt it.”

“Arthur, you sell yourself short.”

Arthur grins at him.

“So, Gwaine had an idea,” Merlin starts, casually inspecting his fingernails.

“Sounds foreboding,” Arthur quips.

“He wants us all to go to some club tonight.”

“Us all?”

“You, me, him, Gwen, and her boyfriend.”

Arthur shifts uneasily. Before he can respond, Merlin jumps in again.

“And I _know_ it’s not really your scene or whatever, but it’s Gwaine’s last night here and he wants to end this trip with a bang. Probably literally,” Merlin snickers. “And I’ll be there, so obviously it’ll be a great time. And everyone will be drunk. Have I convinced you yet?”

“…Yes,” Arthur decides after a minute. 

Merlin’s face looked too full of hope for Arthur to disappoint him. Merlin then beams and slaps his hands on Arthur’s desk a few times out of excitement.

“It’ll be fun,” he promises again.  
  


* * *

  
It’s almost time to leave his house and Arthur is regretting ever telling Merlin that he’d go. He’s standing in his closet and thumbing through his clothes, trying to find anything to wear. He thinks he should go more casual than usual. Of course, casual for Arthur would be anything less than a suit. He finds a pair of jeans crammed in the bottom drawer of his dresser. They look like they haven’t been worn in a year (this just might be the case) but he puts them on anyway and is pleased with the result. He pulls a white jumper over his head and shoves the sleeves up to his elbows. It’ll have to do, Arthur realizes as he checks his watch.

Upon walking into the club, Arthur decides that he immediately wants to turn around and walk back out.

It’s far too dark, bright colored lights flash every which way at random intervals and holy shit, there are so many _bodies_. The air is hot and heavy. Music blares into Arthur’s ears at an alarming volume. 

He is thirty-two and should definitely not be in a club like this. 

Miraculously, he manages to spot Gwen’s curly hair over near the bar on the far side of the square room. By the time he makes it over to them, he’s been danced up on and shoved around by so many people that he’s more than a bit frazzled.

Gwen and Merlin both shout his name when they see him, absolutely ecstatic. Her blouse shimmers under the strobe lights and Arthur’s glad he’s not epileptic. She, Merlin, and another man sit on barstools while a dark-haired man with his hand on Gwen’s shoulder (her boyfriend, Arthur assumes) stands at her side. Merlin leaps off his seat and flies at Arthur, dragging someone with him. Arthur can tell Merlin’s already had a few to drink by the way he trips a bit over his own feet. The man next to him (what Arthur can see of him in the dark, flashing club) is handsome just like Merlin said. He tucks his long, brown hair behind his ear quickly before looping an arm around Merlin’s shoulders.

“Ah!” the man hollers, “So this is your suit guy! Mate, he’s not even wearing a suit.”

Merlin grins toothily and shouts back, “This is the first time I’ve seen him _not_ in a suit, honest.”

“I’m Arthur,” Arthur introduces himself.

“Gwaine,” the man says and takes Arthur’s outstretched hand, shaking it up and down a few times enthusiastically. “I have heard quite a lot about you, Arthur.”

Arthur grins and looks between him and Merlin, who’s shushing him by shoving his hand over his mouth. Merlin then detaches himself from Gwaine and maneuvers himself next to Arthur to bump their arms together.

“I’m the oldest person here,” Arthur says to him.

“Also the best looking,” Merlin beams. “Let’s get you a drink, yeah?”

Merlin doesn’t wait for an answer and returns to the bar, waving his arm like a lunatic in an attempt to grab the bartender’s attention. With Merlin away, Arthur instantly feels lost and out of place, the music banging his eardrums mercilessly.

“Arthur,” Gwen waves him over. “This is Lance,”

“Nice to meet you,” the man says cordially and shakes Arthur’s hand. The difference between his shake and Gwaine’s is startling. 

“You too. So, how did you two meet?”

Arthur learns that a couple years back, Gwen had a second bathroom added to her house and Lance had been her contractor. He’d fallen for her at once and she had too, and they’ve been together ever since. Arthur thinks that they make it sound so easy. They talk to him the entire time with their hands laced together in such a casual way that Arthur’s not sure if they even realize they’re doing it. He’s happy to know that Gwen is with someone so lovely; he knows she deserves it. It turns out that the second bathroom she’d added turned out to be pointless because she’d moved in with Lance seven months after they’d met.

“It’s a fuckin’ fairy tale,” Gwaine says at Arthur’s side, putting a hand over his heart.

“Shut up, Gwaine,” Gwen says light-heartedly, sipping at her drink.

“It kind of is, though,” Lance amends.

“Shots!”

“Oh, god, Merlin, I don’t—”

“Come on Gwen, even you! It’s Gwaine’s last night here!”

“Yeah!” Gwaine shouts in agreement.

“Fine,” she sighs. “Slide me one.”

“That’s the spirit!” Merlin chirps.

The five of them line up at the bar and Merlin places a tiny glass in front of each person. He shoves Gwaine over to secure his place between him and Arthur. When he can feel Merlin looking at him, Arthur grins like there’s some sort of inside joke.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Merlin leans in and says so he can be heard over the music.

Arthur’s heart flutters at the way the lights make his eyes look like they’re changing colors.

“Me too.”

Arthur watches Merlin delicately place his fingers on the glass in front of him. He spins his head both ways to look at everyone before nodding.

“On three!” he announces.

Gwaine counts with him, shouting the numbers together with excited tones. They all gulp the liquid, heads tilting back in unison. The shot glasses clink as they’re slammed down on the bar.

“What is that,” Lance sputters, “gasoline?”

“That, my friend, is heaven in a glass,” Gwaine replies and smacks his lips together. “Another?”

A couple more and Arthur’s feeling a little looser in his skin. The music doesn’t seem so overbearing and he finds himself knocking his hip into the bar to the tune of it. He turns around and looks out onto the dance floor. People heave and rock against one another, either one-on-one or in giant masses that probably started out as circles. 

“Were you hitting on the bartender?” Arthur hears Merlin laugh from behind him.

He turns around and gazes down to the other end of the bar where a petite brunette woman stands, shaking something in a tumbler. Her breasts pop out of her top in a way that Arthur imagines gets her generous tips.

“And now you’re looking at her too! Unreal,” Merlin chuckles and takes a swig of his beer.

“Huh? No I wasn’t.”

“Good,” Gwaine reaches across Merlin to pat Arthur on the shoulder, “because I saw her first, mate.”

“You can have her,” Arthur laughs, still tasting whiskey on his tongue.

Gwaine takes off to grab the attention of the woman in question and Merlin watches with a grin before turning back to look at Arthur.

“‘M going to the bathroom,” he semi-slurs, “tell Gwaine to get me another beer, will you?”

He hops off the stool and runs his hand down Arthur’s leg as he walks away. Arthur shivers slightly and watches him go, pushing ruthlessly through the sea of sweaty bodies. He flags down Gwaine and gives him Merlin’s order, which Gwaine is thrilled to go retrieve.

Another minute passes and the next time Arthur turns around from setting his beer back on the bar, Gwen, Gwaine, and Lance are all huddled in front of him, staring. Arthur furrows his brow, suddenly afraid that Gwen’s going to brandish a crowbar from behind her back and crack it over his head.

“…Everyone,” Arthur says, unsure.

“Arthur,” Gwen starts, grinning at him, “we just want to thank you.”

Arthur quickly scans his brain for something he’s done in the past half hour for them all. Did he buy them a round of drinks without realizing it? No, he hasn’t had _that_ much.

Finally he asks, “For?”

“For making Merlin so happy,” Lance smiles.

“I haven’t seen him like this since Will died,” Gwaine nods, “maybe even before that.”

Arthur can hear his heart beating in his ears. All of Merlin’s closest friends loom over him and he feels tiny sitting on the bar stool. His next words come to him easily.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“We want to,” Gwen smiles and leans forward to put her hand on Arthur’s knee. “He means so much to all of us and it was so scary when he wasn’t himself after…you know.”

Arthur knows.

Gwaine adds, “We know it can’t be easy.” Gwen and Lance nod their heads in sync.

They’re referring to the waiting; to the being-with-him-but-not-being- _with_ -him. After all, Merlin is, for all intents and purposes, unavailable. It’s not something anyone would be able to tell by just watching him, watching the way he acts with Arthur like they’ve known each other for years. But Arthur can tell. Arthur can tell by the way Merlin gazes at him sadly, longingly when they’re sitting on the couch in the lobby of Guinevere’s late at night, swapping stories and bantering. Something in his blue eyes is off. It’s as if there are two doors open and one door shut, stuck in its frame until Arthur’s able to pry it open. Sometimes Arthur’s not sure if there _will_ come a time when Merlin’s ready to be with him. Sometimes he thinks Will’s ghost will always take a front seat to him. The thought wounds him in ways Arthur would have never expected. Still, he holds on. He holds on because of the way Merlin smiles at him like he’s the greatest goddamn thing he’s ever seen in his life. That has to count for something, Arthur is sure of it. 

“It’s not easy,” Arthur admits, looking to each of them. “But it’s going to be worth it.”

“I _told_ you guys he’d say that!” Gwaine hoots, barging his way in between Gwen and Lance and throwing an arm around each of them. 

“One more thing,” Gwen holds up a finger, “If you hurt him, I will personally come to your house and cut your balls off with a butter knife.” Lance looks alarmed and Gwaine cackles, unarming the couple to slide to the bar and grab up his drink. Arthur glances at Gwen fearfully.

“I think this calls for a toast!” Gwaine yells.

He shoves everyone’s drinks into their hands and they all raise them.

“To Arthur,” Gwen beams, tone much less frightening now.

“To Arthur!” Lance and Gwaine agree, tipping back their bottles.

Arthur feels absolutely on top of the world. He watches these happy, marvelous people drink and shove one another over out of glee. They chat and laugh and smile and Arthur is exuberant about the fact that Merlin has such a great network of people in his life. He truly deserves them, and they deserve him. The more he thinks about it, the more he wants to let Merlin know how lucky he is. Arthur looks over at Gwen and Lancelot who are talking close with animated eyes. On his other side is Gwaine, leaning on the bar and flipping his hair while he raises his eyebrows at the bartender. He doesn’t interrupt them and instead stands up, leaving to seek out Merlin.

He shoves his way through the crowd and finally reaches the bathroom, only to discover that it’s empty. He furrows his brow and opens the door to every stall just in case. He figures he must’ve came in just after Merlin left and heads for the exit. He walks back out to the dance floor and sure enough, he sees the back of Merlin’s head by the wall adjacent to the bar. Arthur squints and even with all the blinking lights he manages to make out that in front of Merlin stand a man and a woman, definitely younger than himself but probably older than Merlin. Arthur instantly dislikes the way they’re looking at him; they’ve been starved for days and have finally found a turkey dinner. He makes his way over to them as quickly as he can with all the people in between them.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” he hears Merlin saying.

“Come on, babe, it’s just doubling your fun!”

“Yeah,” the man agrees, stepping closer to put a hand on Merlin’s waist.

Merlin shoves his arm away and growls, “Fuck off!”

Arthur’s almost to them when he hears the woman say something else he can’t distinguish. Merlin glares at them again but when he tries to leave, the man puts his hand on the wall to block his path. Arthur feels his muscles clench with fury. Finally, he breaks free of the crowd and steps over to them.

“He said no,” Arthur growls, grabbing the man’s wrist.

The man snaps his eyes to him, alarmed. The woman, however, adopts a predatory glare.

“You could join us too, blondie,”

“I’d rather walk into traffic,” Arthur sneers without a second thought, “now fuck off.”

He grabs Merlin’s shoulder and walks them both away. He navigates them across the dance floor with a hand at Merlin’s back, making sure he doesn’t lose him in the crowd. He doesn’t drop his hand until they get back to the bar.

“Those fuckers,” Merlin hisses, “I hate everyone.”

“No you don’t,” Arthur insists. 

Eyes crinkling, Merlin chuckles.

“What’s so funny?”

“‘I’d rather walk into traffic’,” Merlin laughs again, slapping his knee.

Arthur smiles too. He’s calmed down a bit now, but the thought of that man’s hand on Merlin’s waist makes Arthur want to take a baseball bat to his face. That creep has now officially gotten farther with Merlin than Arthur has. He wants to fold up into himself like one of those origami swans they leave on beds at fancy hotels. His booze buzz is gone, but Arthur doesn’t care. At least Merlin’s safe.

“Well,” Merlin decides, “I don’t hate _everyone_.”

Merlin then loops his arm through Arthur’s and rests his head on Arthur’s shoulder for the briefest second. Arthur feels warm and his heart beats a bit faster and he thinks that this, this feels right. This is how it should always be. And then Merlin’s turning away from him to listen to something that Gwaine’s saying, but that warmth is still there. Just like it always is.  
  


* * *

  
Gwaine goes home with the small, brown-haired bartender. Gwen hugs everyone around the neck, professing her love unto them all before Lance drives them home (he’d only had the shots they’d all taken together and a single beer, much to Gwaine’s chagrin). This, of course, leaves Arthur with Merlin. And a handsy and intoxicated Merlin at that. His fingers dance up and down Arthur’s thigh dangerously as he drives to Merlin’s flat.

“Stop that,” Arthur scolds, swatting his hand away.

Merlin thinks it’s the funniest thing in the world and cackles into the center console. He calms down after a minute and raises his head again, turning it toward Arthur. Arthur can feel him looking at him.

“What is it?”

“Thanks for rescuing me back there,” Merlin says, giving Arthur a thumbs up.

Arthur grins. “My pleasure, Myrddin.”

“Why do people always assume I’m into threesomes?” Merlin muses aloud.

Arthur raises his eyebrows, “Does that happen to you a lot?”

“Do I just seem like the type of person who—” Merlin hiccups, “who’s into that?”

Arthur turns to look at him for a second before deciding, “Kind of.”

“What?” Merlin squawks. 

Arthur laughs brightly at his outrage. His eyes are all glassy and his mouth hangs open like he can’t believe Arthur would say such a thing. He then slings his feet up on the dashboard and sinks down in his seat. Arthur thinks it must be highly uncomfortable.

“Have you ever been in one, then?”

“One what?”

“A trees—wait, no. Three. A threesome?” Merlin stumbles over his clarification. He brings his hand over to Arthur’s lap again, fingers tapping at his upper thigh like he’s playing the piano. Merlin hiccups again before adding, “I bet you have, and I bet it was _really_ raunchy. Dicks everywhere, everywhere. Coming at you from all angles when you least expect them, like a spooky movie,”

“Oh my god. No, no, I haven’t, okay?”

 He gasps when Merlin’s hand gets dangerously close to his crotch.

“ _Please_ , Myrddin, keep your hands to yourself.”

“That’s no fun,” Merlin replies, but does as he’s told anyway. After a second, he gives Arthur a sidelong glance. “Aren’t you gonna ask me if I’ve ever been in a threesome?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Arthur parks the car in front of Merlin’s tower block and kills the engine. When he looks over at Merlin, he’s smirking. Arthur really doesn’t want to know what it means, but it’s amusing nonetheless.

“Let’s go, you deviant. You’re home.”

They walk (well, Arthur walks; Merlin stumbles while clutching Arthur’s shoulder) through the lobby and in the lift Merlin leans heavily into Arthur’s side. They finally get to Merlin’s door and Arthur plucks the keys from Merlin’s pocket and unlocks it. He pushes it open.

“You gonna be okay?” Arthur asks.

Merlin’s already inside and ripping his jacket off. He turns around and stand still with one arm out of its sleeve, gaping at Arthur incredulously.

“You—you’re leaving? But what if I need rescuing again?” Merlin asks and wrestles himself the rest of the way out of his jacket. He throws it carelessly at the couch. It lands on the back of it and then slides off and onto the floor with a dull _thwack_.

  
“From what?”

“Bad dreams,” Merlin answers, dropping to the floor to pull at the laces of his shoes. 

He reminds Arthur of a toddler, bumbling and distracted. He frees one of his feet and tosses the shoe on top of his jacket. Arthur didn’t know he had bad dreams. Merlin’s never told him that before. His heart clenches.

“You want me to stay?” Arthur sighs.

Merlin looks up at him from the floor. In one motion he gets up and stumbles his way over to where Arthur’s standing stationary in the doorway. He slides up to Arthur real close, almost chest to chest, and smiles at him; a loose, lazy smile that makes Arthur’s breath hitch. He’s so close he can smell the alcohol on his breath.

“Of course I do, shithead,”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Arthur shuffles backward.

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“Because you are a six year-old. A tall, drunk six year-old who won’t keep his hands to himself.”

Merlin rolls his eyes violently. He glares at Arthur for an instant before spinning around on one foot and clambering to the back wall. He sinks down against it and sighs like he’s been put in time-out.

“I won’t touch you, Ar- _thur_.”

Arthur’ll be damned if that’s not the most depressing sentence he’s ever heard out of Merlin’s mouth. His pretty pink mouth that just a minute ago was definitely close enough to kiss. It was bad enough he had to watch it wrapped around the top of a beer bottle all night. _That_ was not an easy thing to ignore. Then again, nothing about Merlin is easy to ignore. Including the way he’s now banging his foot against the hardwood floor and singing Arthur’s name in some tune Arthur doesn’t recognize but likes the sound of. Arthur listens while he goes to Merlin’s tiny kitchen to retrieve a couple water bottles. He returns to the main room and walks to where Merlin sits, crouching down.

“Drink these,” Arthur instructs.

“Nah,” Merlin shoves at the air with his hand, “Bring me a beer. And then pour it all over yourself and I’ll lick it off.”

Arthur’s cheeks burn and his mouth falls open. 

“You’re like a fish!” Merlin proclaims, tapping the bottom of Arthur’s chin with his finger.

“You drink like a fish.”

“I do _not._ Gwaine’s last night. Going away. Miss him already.” Merlin’s sentences become less and less established as he goes on, “Abandoned me! Believe it? Not surprised, though. Abandoned me to get laid. Just like you’re going to. Arthur. Even you.”

“I’m not getting laid,” Arthur objects.

“You wanna?” Merlin garbles.

He pulls the hem of his t-shirt up, forcing Arthur to peer down at his hipbones that protrude over the waist of his jeans. The flat, white skin of his stomach looks like it needs to be licked. Arthur looks away quickly and shoves a water bottle into Merlin’s hand. Even as he stares at the floor, the image of Merlin’s skin flashes behind his eyes like it’s burned into his brain.

“No,” Arthur answers. “Now drink this, you hooligan.”

Merlin brings the bottle to his lips and does as Arthur says, all while regarding him with a stare that Arthur can only describe as hurt. His eyebrows are cinched together like he wants to ask a question. Due to his lack of filter at the moment (at most moments, actually), Arthur knows he will.

“Why not?”

“Because.”

“Because why not?” Merlin continues amusedly, liking this little game he’s constructed.

“Because,” Arthur sighs agitatedly, “you say we can’t.”

“But I’m saying we can,” Merlin retorts and looks at Arthur like he genuinely doesn’t understand. Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs again. 

“Just drink the water, please.”

“Wh—”

“If you ask me why, I’m going to leave,” he bluffs.

“So you’re staying?!”

Arthur can’t help but grin at the sparkle in Merlin’s (dilated) eyes. He wants to stay, and Merlin wants him to too. The thought of Merlin’s hipbones crosses his mind again and he shakes his head, willing it away. Nothing’s going to happen, he tells himself. It’s not really what Merlin wants. And although drunk Merlin actually isn’t too different from sober Merlin, what little inhibitions he has have vanished. 

“Whatcha thinkin’ about, mate?”

“You,” Arthur answers.

“Good,” Merlin warbles and then finishes off the second water he’d been brought. When it’s empty, he tosses it carelessly onto the floor behind Arthur and stands up. He sways only slightly before leaping onto his bed with a huff.

“If you’re gonna leave,” he says into his pillow, “at least wait ’til ’m sleepin’.”  
  


* * *

  
Arthur wakes up the next morning from the most comfortable sleep he’s had in a long time. Immediately, he recognizes the bed under his back as Merlin’s. Which means the weight on top of his chest and stomach and legs belongs to its owner. He keeps his eyes closed against the sun streaming through the windows and focuses on the soft puff of Merlin’s breathing against his neck. Merlin is completely _on top of him_ —not cuddled into his side, not partly sprawled over his chest, but his entire weight (which is hardly anything; Arthur’s not complaining) is on top of him and they’re touching from head to toe. Merlin’s hair tickles his ear when he exhales.

It’s exactly how Arthur wants to wake up every single morning of his entire life.

He finally opens his eyes and notices that the covers have fallen to the floor. The sunshine pours over the porcelain skin of Merlin’s back, right down to the slope of his bum, which is clad only in a pair of electric blue boxers. But Arthur’s eyes are stuck on the image painted onto the skin above it. It’s difficult to see from the angle he’s at, but he can tell it’s a tree. Its trunk travels up, up, up to the middle of his back, light brown and knotted with imperfections. It’s limbs, festooned with pale green leaves, reach up at but don’t quite touch Merlin’s shoulder blades. It’s so grand that Arthur wonders how he’s never seen it faintly through any of Merlin’s white painting shirts. Arthur lifts his hand from the bed and traces the tattoo with his index finger, grazing ever so slightly over Merlin’s skin. Eventually, his sense catches up with him and he stops, but Merlin’s already waking.

“Ah,” Arthur moans quietly as Merlin shifts his hips a bit.

He’d been so enamored with the tree that he didn’t even realize his erection probably drilling a hole through Merlin’s hip. He’d be even more embarrassed if he didn’t feel Merlin’s doing the exact same to his lower belly. Suddenly the heat is unbearable and Arthur takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. The slight expanding of his stomach only makes him more aware of Merlin; of the pulsing heat that pricks into his own hot skin. This time, Merlin’s the one to moan as he shifts his weight again.

“ _Arthur_...” 

“Stop,” Arthur warns, eyes blown wide, “Don’t do that or I’m gonna—”

“Sorry, sorry,” Merlin hisses into the skin of Arthur’s shoulder.

“It’s— _ah_ , shit,”

“Fucking _hot_ ,”

Arthur’s not sure if he’s referring to the actual temperature or the situation itself, but either way the tone in which Merlin says it goes straight to his cock. He’s sure Merlin can feel it. A breeze flows through the open window, but it does nothing to cool either of them down.

Sure enough, Merlin groans.

In a moment of pure lust, Arthur brings his hand up to wrap it around Merlin’s side, his fingers just barely touching the leaves imprinted there. 

“ _God_ , Arthur,” Merlin whines, his hips grinding down just barely; so minimally that it could be called an accident. 

What’s not an accident is green stars exploding behind Arthur’s eyes as he comes in his pants like a fucking teenage boy. He grips Merlin’s hip tighter and automatically lifts his hips off the bed out of habit. Merlin likes that, _yeah,_ he likes it, teeth grazing against the golden skin of Arthur’s collarbone. He feels when Merlin comes too, a minute later, swearing and shaking and radiating heat like a fucking meteor. He then rolls off of Arthur and onto the mattress next to him. They both stare up at the ceiling, their heavy breathing resounding in the room.

Still bleary from sleep, it’s another blissed-out minute before Arthur realizes what’s happened. He sits up and grabs at his clothes that he, for some reason, thought it would be okay to discard before going to sleep the night before. He pulls on his shirt and then turns to face Merlin with wide, guilty eyes.

“Myrddin,” he says, panicky, “I’m so sorry, I mean—you were there—and I was—and it’s _morning_ —”

“It’s my fault,” Merlin says quickly, sitting up to look at Arthur properly.

“I shouldn’t have—I just, you were on—and—”

“Shut up,” Merlin rolls his eyes and Arthur stops his stammering. “Seriously, it was bound to happen sometime, what with us in the same bed… And I didn’t realize I sleep like that when there’s someone else in the bed. Maybe it’s just with you.”

Arthur thinks of the magnet pull he feels whenever he’s with Merlin and that Merlin must feel it too; that inexplicable gravitation toward one another whenever they’re near. Arthur imagines a tiny string from his heart to Merlin’s, trying to shorten itself at any opportunity.

“It’s _morning_ ,” Merlin finishes, reiterating what Arthur had said.

“Still, I…”

The air in the room feels off, unusual.

“Let’s call this a fluke, okay?”

Arthur repeats, “A fluke.”

Merlin nods like he’s trying to convince himself, and Arthur does too. Merlin smokes a cigarette and then they move to the kitchen to make pancakes (Merlin’s self-proclaimed hangover cure; Arthur’s doubtful) and Arthur asks about Merlin’s tattoo. Try as he might, Arthur can’t stop thinking about what happened. And judging by how Merlin seems even more distracted than usual as he stirs the batter in a giant blue bowl and pokes fun at the way Arthur cracks the eggs, Arthur guesses Merlin can’t either.

They don’t talk about it again.  
  


* * *

  
Arthur’s the first one to break the ice. After all, he’s never been too good at holding grudges and apparently his father could get an award for it. Arthur thought he’d be glad to have his father speaking to him again, and yet as he sits in his office delivering his so-called apology speech, he finds himself not wanting to apologize at all. He doesn’t regret what he said. He takes one look at Uther and the anger washes back like a flood tide over the sandbank of Arthur’s mind. But he can’t take the silence anymore. So he makes an appointment via Uther’s secretary and he goes.

He’s not sure he’s the best at this whole thing, considering the way he keeps skirting around saying the phrase “I’m sorry”. He stares mostly at his father’s brass nameplate on his desk as he speaks. Arthur’s afraid that if he makes eye contact, he’ll just say _fuck it_ , stand up and walk out. He honestly wouldn’t put it outside the realm of possibility.

Uther nobly accepts Arthur’s half-apology and even shakes his hand. First, he has to make an appointment to see his own father and now he’s shaking his hand like he’s just been signed a deal. He feels like he should walk out of the office and phone his business partner; _Hey man, it’s Arthur. Guess who’s just agreed to publish our shit?!_ _That’s right, those Pendragon bastards. Meet me at Luke’s in an hour for a celebratory beer. See, man, I told you it’d be worth it._

Even hypothetical-him has ambitions. Goals. Arthur’s stomach churns unsettlingly.

“I hope we can put this all behind us,” Uther tells him in a tone that doesn’t sound hopeful or pleasant, but rather authoritative and stern.

Arthur smiles, “I do too.”  
  


* * *

  
Since a week after Gwaine left, Merlin’s been sleeping at Arthur’s.

Arthur can’t stand the thought of Merlin alone in the dark of the coffee shop, and Merlin can’t stand looking at his mural when he’s not working on it. Arthur thinks about it for approximately half a second before voicing his suggestion. He tries not to get too excited by the way Merlin jumps on it, beaming all wide and toothily. 

“Just for sleeping, I swear,” says Merlin.

“Whatever you need,” Arthur answers nonchalantly.

Merlin’s brought the pillow he keeps at Guinevere’s and the huge blankets off his bed to create a makeshift bed of his own on Arthur’s sofa. He’d offer Merlin his bed (no touching, goddammit—the phrase seems to be burned into his brain by now) but due to what happened the last time they were in a bed together, Arthur doesn’t. Besides, he sees Merlin take one glance down the long hall to where Arthur’s bedroom resides and his cheeks turn red as roses. That was the end of that thought.

It’s both comforting and unnerving to know that Merlin is just down the hall as Arthur lies in bed. Thankfully, he’s less restless than he was the first time Merlin stayed over. But the mere thought of Merlin’s presence when Arthur’s not indulging in it is just…exciting. Merlin had only asked one thing of him and that was to keep his bedroom door wide open.

“Not so I can go in,” Merlin had clarified way too quickly, “It just makes me feel better if there are no, y’know, barriers or whatever between me and you.”

_Oh_ , Arthur thinks, _but there are_. He could take a bulldozer to the 3 walls between his room and where Merlin lies, snoozing on the couch and there would still be something keeping them apart. Arthur’s not getting impatient—he’s _not—_ but it’s just that he can feel something coming. He feels a storm in his bones; or rather, the calm before it. He can also see the storm in Merlin’s eyes. He ponders on this as he lies in bed staring up at his ceiling, as he often does. 

Restless blue cyclones encircle large black pupils as Arthur stares into them, perhaps a bit too close and for a bit too long. Already he can imagine trees being ripped up from the ground and hurled across streets, newspapers being plastered against the sides of buildings by frantic gales. The images come way too vividly thanks to a tropical storm that had kept he and Morgana trapped inside Uther’s vacation house one summer day. She’d clung to the windows, watching all starry-eyed while Arthur had sat against the wall of the kitchen, per Uther’s instruction. He’d snuck glances out through the glass too, of course, to see police officers ushering hoards of people back to their houses from the beach. One hand would be pressing their hats down to keep them on their heads while the other directed families toward neighboring houses. Arthur wonders if that’s what made Morgana want to be a cop. He really should ask her that sometime. 

Arthur’s mother was alive then, he remembers warmly. She and Uther had been at the street market when the storm struck, leaving Morgana in charge (Arthur liked how Morgana never held that kind of power over him, unlike the older siblings of kids at his then-primary school he’d heard stories about). He recalls his parents arriving home that afternoon, frazzled and wind-blown. Still, his mother had put the bouquet of ruined flowers she’d bought before the storm in a glass vase on the dining room table. Uther had glared at them but Arthur loved it; loved how something so derelict and flawed could still be regarded as lovely.

The memory cuts into him like broken glass and he finds himself pushing his covers aside andgetting out of bed. He slides out the open door of his room and turns the corner. On autopilot, his feet walk him down the dark hall. As he passes the living room, he hears Merlin’s breathing and wills himself not to shiver. He keeps walking.

He finds himself flipping the lights on in the library.

The sudden brightness burns into his eyes and he squints, feeling his way over to the shelves. He runs a finger along the horizontal wood until he is face to face with his mother. He stares. Arthur doesn’t lift the picture frame, doesn’t dare disturb it from where it sits quietly on the shelf. Instead, he just looks, thinking about her and her vase of ruined daisies. He waits for any other memories to float to the surface, like dead fish, but none do. He keeps his eyes on her picture as if she’ll climb out of the frame and into the room any minute, grinning while she pats his head and sings: _Well, little Arthur! Long time no see!_

He still can’t believe he’d forgotten about her picture in here for so long. Shame colors his features and he ducks his head, looking away from her at last.

“You miss her.”

Arthur doesn’t have to turn around to know that Merlin’s hovering in the doorway, his fluffy, maroon blanket wrapped all around him so that only his head pops out. Arthur walks himself over to the solitary chair and sits down slowly. When Merlin sits down on the floor in front of him on his blanket throne, Arthur sort of wishes he had on something more than his boxers.

“It’s more than that,” Arthur sighs, voice rough with sleep. “It’s like there’s this dull thrumming where missing her is supposed to be. Like it’s always there, but I’m not always aware of it.”

Merlin nods and it makes a scratchy sound where his comforter rubs over his chin.

Arthur doesn’t hesitate for too long before he steels himself and asks, “Is that how it feels with Will?”

Merlin snaps his eyes up to meet Arthur’s. He stares at him openly for a minute, letting Arthur know it’s alright to talk about this. Merlin hums and looks away, thinking. Arthur can practically hear Merlin scouring inside himself, his heart, his brain, anywhere that could provide him with the answer to Arthur’s question. His shoulders slump gradually as he waits.

“No,” Merlin decides, shaking his head so slightly that Arthur barely sees it.

“Then how does it feel?” Desperation is clear in his voice. He needs to understand.

“It’s like something’s blown through me and I’ve shattered. And the thing that’s wrecked me saw some of those broken pieces on the floor and has taken them with it as it left, like a souvenir.”

Arthur sees the analogy too clearly in his head. He sees pieces of Merlin spread out over his hardwood floor, cracked and jagged. He watches some of the most important ones being plucked and stowed away by something else, something Not Merlin, and Merlin is left there kneeling on the floor, searching for them with bloody hands. Arthur knows he’s still searching.

Merlin’s quiet voice shakes as he goes on, “I feel those pieces of me missing. Big, essential parts that I need in order to run smoothly. They’re just…gone. I look for them every day, and every day I find little bits—fractions of fractions of pieces—and when I do, I find them with you.”

“Me,” Arthur repeats. The lamplight shimmers in the tears that collect in Merlin’s eyes.

“But I need those pieces, Arthur. Those pieces of me. I’m sick of being a big fucking mess,”

He sniffles once and Arthur automatically drops to the floor from his chair and sits on his knees in front of Merlin. Merlin stares idly at the shelves, eyes huge and concerned, afraid that the slightest glance away might allow a tear to fall. Arthur puts a hand on his shoulder. Merlin’s lip quivers as he then turns to look back at him.

“You’re not a big fucking mess, Merlin. You’re incredible,” Arthur soothes, grinning as if the mere thought of Merlin being anything less than perfect is nothing short of absurd.

“But I need those fucking pieces,” he warbles again.

“Hey, look at me. I’ll be your pieces.”

At this, the tear that had been threatening to fall finally does and Arthur watches as it makes its way quickly down Merlin’s cheek. He blinks the rest away and then he’s smiling, grinning so wide that for a second Arthur’s wondered if it has nothing to do with him at all. Merlin’s hand comes up to clasp tightly around Arthur’s wrist.

“Yeah,” he nods, “you will.”  
  


* * *

  
“Let’s make a break for it.”

“I can’t.”

“C’mon, no one’ll know.”

“Sharon will, and she’ll probably tell my father.”

“I thought she liked you!”

“Not so much anymore since you’ve been coming around here so often—”

“I could come around less, if you’d like—”

“No,” Arthur answers immediately, “the ticking.”

“Let’s make a break for it,” Merlin suggests again.

He’s sprawled on the sofa behind Arthur’s desk, long legs stretching to kick repeatedly against the back of Arthur’s desk chair. Arthur’s gotten used to the rhythm of it as he types up his weekly reports. The kicking then stops, causing Arthur to spin around in his chair and shoot Merlin a questioning look. Merlin’s staring at him in the same way.

“Ticking?” Merlin asks as an afterthought and moves his foot to tap away at Arthur’s knee. The bottoms of his trainers leave distinct dirt marks on Arthur’s black slacks.

“Yes, ticking,” Arthur answers distractedly.

“What ticking?”

“ _What_?” Arthur shouts, spinning around to gape at him, “The ticking! You know, the ticking!”

Merlin’s staring at him like maybe Arthur needs to have his head examined at the nearest hospital. Arthur brings his hands up to gesture in front of him wildly.

“You know about the ticking,” he insists, “I must’ve said something.”

Merlin sticks his lip out and shakes his head.

Arthur is floored. He stills himself, putting a hand on Merlin’s shoe to still it as well. He listens. Merlin looks from side to side, listening too. He then looks at Arthur expectantly.

There’s nothing.

“Fuck me sideways,” Arthur gapes.

“If that’s how you want it,” Merlin sneers.

Arthur continues, “Holy shit. I can’t believe it. It must be you.” His eyes widen with realization. “Come to think of it, I never hear it when you’re in here.”

“What must be me? What’s going on, shithead?”

Arthur grins to himself. It’s ironic that the loudest factor in Arthur’s life is the same thing that makes the noise go away. He thinks about this, zoning off and staring at Merlin’s face.

“Would you stop looking at me like that? Freakin’ me out,”

“Right.” 

Arthur spins back around, grin still tugging at his lips incessantly. 

“Are you gonna tell me what you’re on about?”

“I just really like you,” Arthur declares.

“I really like you too, shithead,” Merlin beams and kicks the back of Arthur’s chair for good measure.

_No_ , Arthur corrects himself as he starts typing again, _I’m just really_ in love _with you._  
  


* * *

  
Uther’s civilness toward him comes and goes. It’s like Arthur’s broken the ice, but now the dam requires constant tending to or else the entire town will go under. He feels like he’s walking on eggshells. In theory, everything should be alright. But when Arthur thinks about it for another minute, he realizes that nothing is alright between the two of them and it probably won’t ever be; hasn’t ever been. He wishes he could say that thought concerns him more than it does.

Still, there’s this gnawing feeling in the back of his head like a fresh bruise is being prodded. Being in his office makes him queasy. Going to meetings gives him migraines. He debates asking Merlin to just sit at his desk with him all day just to keep the ticking at bay, but it’s no such luck; Merlin has been working nonstop day and night on the coffee shop mural. He’s even taken to sleeping there for the past week (Arthur’s house feels as giant and empty as it ever has. The absence of Merlin is so painfully obvious).

Arthur had been to Guinevere’s at the start of the week and what Merlin has begun to paint on the wall looks like the inside of the shop itself. Well, if the shop had been up and running in the 1980’s. From the stains all over Merlin’s formerly white shirts (and on some days, the colored streaks on his neck and arms), Arthur can tell he’s having a ball painting in what appears to be a lime green shag carpet in the foreground. More than two-thirds of the wall still remains white.

At the very end of the next week, Arthur’s so sick of staring at his office wall that he goes home half-way through the day. He leaves his laptop and briefcase to make it look like he’ll be back. Pocketing only his mobile and his car keys, he slips out and past his secretary. He even goes all the way around the mass of cubicles to avoid walking past his father’s office (he hasn’t been to this side of the floor in _years_ , he realizes, scanning the faces of people at their desks that Arthur definitely does not recognize). Though they seem to recognize him; a few of them snap their glances off their computer screens and eye him warily as he passes, as if he’ll slam his fist down on one of their desks and fire them immediately. He probably could, but he doesn’t have the energy. He does wonder about the reactions he’d get, though. Arthur ponders on this as he steps in the lift and descends to the car park.

When he pushes the door of Guinevere’s open, the first thing he hears is her shouting something and then he’s suddenly being shoved bodily back outside. He stumbles for a few seconds before finally finding his footing again. Holy shit, Merlin is _strong_.

“What?” is all Arthur manages to say.

“You can’t go in,” Merlin insists, hands splayed out between them like Arthur might charge him at any moment.

“Elaborate.”

“I’m painting.”

Arthur shrugs. “And?”

“And you can’t see it yet, shithead.”

“I’ve already seen some of it!”

“Yes,” Merlin holds a finger up, “but now it’s really coming together. And it’s a secret. And you can’t see it.”

“But Guinevere gets to see it,” Arthur whines, frowning.

“Don’t do that!” Merlin whines back, shoving at Arthur’s chest. “Don’t do the puppy eyes.”

“I can’t help it.”

“Yeah, you can!”

“Okay, fine, I can.”

“So stop it.”

“Not unless you let me see the mural.”

“A _secret_ ,” Merlin repeats.

Arthur sighs, “Fine. But how am I going to get my coffee?”

“I’ll get it for you, duh.”

“Hey,” Arthur points at him, “you’re not wearing white. But you’re painting.”

“Right, yeah, all of my—”

Arthur glances over Merlin’s plain black t-shirt, clean except for a stroke of yellow right over his heart and also up by the collar. There’s a tiny hole in the seam that goes over Merlin’s left shoulder and Arthur squints at it, cocking his head.

“Is that my shirt?” he asks.

Merlin turns six shades of pink and Arthur grins, wide and unabashed.

“So what if it is?”

“So now you’re stealing my clothes?”

“Oh, don’t look so smug,” Merlin smiles back coolly, cheeks still tinted. “All of my painting shirts are filthy and I haven’t had a chance to get to the launderette.” He then tugs at its hem and nods at Arthur, “I’ll buy you a new one.”

“No,” Arthur protests.

“But I’ve got paint all over—”

“Myrddin, it’s _fine_. I like it.”

He doesn’t dare go into detail about how much he likes it, of course; Merlin in his clothes. He’s not sure when Merlin even snatched it. But Arthur’s looking at him now, all smiley and blushing and tall and thin and hair glistening in the summer sun and _wearing Arthur’s shirt_ , and he can’t help but beam. He feels warm at his very core and almost intoxicated, like he’d taken a shot of whiskey without his knowing. His heart pounds heavily against his ribcage.

“God, Arthur,” Merlin breathes and leans his shoulder against the glass wall of the shop.

Arthur breaks out of his thoughts and asks, “What?”

“The way you look at me,” Merlin answers. He watches his own fingers as they continue fiddling with the hem of his, no, _Arthur’s_ , shirt.

“Yeah,” Arthur nods, “I know.”

“No one has ever looked at me the way you do. No one.”

Merlin looks like he absolutely wants to say something more but denies himself. He stands upright again and runs a hand through his dark, dark hair and Arthur watches in awe before clearing his throat to speak again.

“So, how long am I banned from the establishment?”

“Until the mural’s done, I’m afraid,” Merlin clicks his tongue.

“But—”

“I can bring your latte to you at work.”

“Yes!” Arthur rejoices. “But oh, don’t even talk to me about work.”

“You should quit,” Merlin beams.  
  


* * *

  
It’s a Sunday night when Arthur finds himself being shaken out of his sleeping state. It’s probably his secretary, he thinks, or maybe Mithian. He groans in an effort to make them go away until he realizes that he’s not at the office; he’s in his bed, in his boxers, blinking blearily at the digital clock next to his bed. It reads 2:27 AM. He stares past the glowing numbers and, in the moonlight, manages to make out Merlin’s face right by his bedside.

Arthur’s had this dream before.

Merlin’s going to press a finger lightly to Arthur’s lips and wordlessly slip into the bed on top of him. He’ll proceed to kiss, kiss, kiss every inch of him, starting at Arthur’s neck and working his way down, down, down until Arthur moans, loud and desperate, into the darkness. Merlin will lick and gently suck him to hardness and their lips will then meet for the first time (oh god, for the _first time_ ) until Merlin breaks it to sit up and slide onto Arthur, riding him slowly until he’s used to the feeling. Sometimes he continues the slow pace, rocking up and down and up and down and making filthy sounds. Other times, they go fast, desperate and wracked with moans that fill every inch of Arthur’s bedroom. Arthur’s hands rub up and down Merlin’s sides, across his pale chest. Because he can, he twinkles his fingers over the smooth skin on the inside of Merlin’s thighs. Gasps of air are sucked in through smiles. Even in real life, Arthur’s never quite felt as good as he does with Merlin in his dreams.

But instead of silencing Arthur, instead of lying down with him, Merlin just grins.

“Good, you’re up!” he chirps, far too awake for this hour of the night.

“God,” Arthur groans, rolling onto his back.

“Actually it’s me, Merlin.”

“D’you have any idea what time it is?” Arthur garbles.

“Two twenty-nine.”

“At night.”

“Or in the morning. Depending on who you ask.”

“I say it’s night. Nighttime is when people sleep, Myrddin.”

Arthur hears the shifting of fabric as Merlin shrugs.

“What on earth are you doing here?”

The moonlight shines on Merlin’s toothy grin as he says, “I thought we could go on a little trip.”

“For the last time, Myrddin, I don’t take drugs—”

Merlin swats at his shoulder. “That’s not what I meant, shithead.”

Realizing that Merlin is not going to let him be, Arthur shifts to sit up with his back against the headboard. He reaches over to flip on the lamp and the room illuminates. He blinks at the brightness and rubs at his sleep-ridden eyes with the tips of his fingers.

“How did you even get in?”

“You showed me where the hidden key is on the back porch.”

“I’m pretty certain that I did not.”

“Well,” Merlin shrugs again, “I found it, anyway.”

“You’re mad.”

“Mad about _you_.”

Arthur breathes out a laugh, a smile finally reaching his tired lips. He so badly just wants to grab a fistful of Merlin’s shirt (it’s one of his own, this time) and pull him into bed, peppering kisses over his cheeks and chest and hipbones and, Arthur realizes, he should probably stop thinking about this with Merlin right there looking at him. His fingers itch to reach out. He clenches them into his sheets to keep them by his sides.

“C’mon, then,” Merlin prompts again, “Road trip.”

“At three in the morning?”

“I don’t see why not?”

Arthur scoffs, “I’ve got work tomorrow. Er, today.”

“So do I!”

“It’s hardly the same thing.”

“Right,” Merlin nods, “my work is fun.”

“Shut up.”

Merlin smiles, relaxed and friendly before reaching to tug at Arthur’s arm in an attempt to pull him out of bed. Arthur goes willingly after a second, standing up and appreciating the way Merlin eyes his body in a way he probably thinks is surreptitious before Arthur pulls a sweatshirt on. It’s something he’d gotten from uni and hasn’t worn for a good decade, but it fits nice all the same. He tugs on the pair of jeans he’d worn to the club weeks and weeks ago while Merlin sits by his open dresser and throws balled up socks at him. Arthur decides that it is way too late (early?) for this shit. But it’s Merlin, so he just sighs exasperatedly and tries not to fall too hard in love with the way Merlin then crawls across the floor to collect his sock bombs and return them to their rightful place. Arthur slips on a pair of trainers.

“Ready?” he asks.

“I was _born_ ready.”


	3. Chapter 3

The drive is two hours but it feels short. Merlin’s in the passenger seat regaling Arthur with stories from his secondary school days and just generally trying to distract him from asking where they’re going. He sings along to the radio as well, cranking the knob between his index finger and his thumb until the speakers of Arthur’s car protest the rampant bass.

Arthur has to scold him about thirty times to keep his feet off the dashboard (this is ever since one time Arthur’d gotten in his car and found ten tiny toe-prints on his windshield in front of the passenger seat. When Merlin was in his car without his shoes on, Arthur can’t recall. Merlin insists on having all the windows down and even the sunroof open. Arthur’s glad he’s wearing a sweatshirt; even for summer, the night air is a bit chilly, streaming into the car freely as they speed down some road Arthur’s never heard of. Moonlight beams down on them and Merlin openly marvels at the way it lights up Arthur’s hair.

“Maybe I should get my nose pierced,” Merlin muses suddenly.

“Please don’t.”

“Or my cartilage,”

Arthur laughs brightly, eyes crinkling.

“What’s so funny?”

“It’s nothing,” Arthur promises.

“Bullshit,” Merlin punches him in the shoulder, “You were going to say something hateful about my ears.”

“I would never do such a thing.”

Arthur sees Merlin smiling in his peripherals (it’s entirely difficult to keep his eyes on the road with so much going on at his side). He brings his hands up and traces a finger over the shell of his ears.

“Or maybe my belly button,”

“What about your belly button?”

“I should get it pierced.”

“I would pay to see that,” Arthur chuckles.

“I’ll bet you would.”

“Myrddin,” Arthur turns his head to glance at him momentarily, “please don’t.”

“I think it’d be kind of hot. What’s wrong, you don’t like piercings?”

Arthur shrugs. “I’m not big on the whole piercing-tattoo scene.”

“I have tattoos,” Merlin squints at him.

“Well, that’s different.”

“Is it?”

“Wait,” Arthur cocks his head at the road, “you’ve got more than one?”

“Just the tree one, but you’ve seen that.”

Has he ever. Arthur sometimes daydreams about sitting behind Merlin and just tracing his fingers over it; the trunk and branches on the smooth, colored skin of his back as Merlin shivers into the touch. He imagines running his tongue over the green leaves, holding Merlin still with steady hands on his hips.

“Would you ever get one?” Merlin asks curiously.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like needles. They freak me out.”

Aww,” Merlin coos, patting Arthur’s knee, “Is wittle baby Pendwagon afwaid of the big bad needles?”

“You’re such a dick,” Arthur says as he slaps his hand away. “And never, _ever_ do that voice again. You sound like the host of one of those children’s television shows with all the puppets.”

“Now, puppets,” Merlin holds a finger up, “ _those_ freak me out.”  


* * *

  
The moon provides a helpful amount of light as Arthur steps carefully after Merlin down the path, anfractuous and narrow. Merlin’s talking loudly about something but Arthur’s not listening, too distracted by the smell of the sea and the crackling sound of the terrain under his trainers. The wind blows his hair from his forehead as he keeps an eye on Merlin’s spindly figure in front of him.

Finally, the trail opens up to a wide strip of beach. Calm but noisy waves wash in over the sand, glittering like diamonds in the moonlight. Arthur stops short at the mouth of the path to watch them.

“I can’t remember the last time I saw the sea,” he says more to himself than Merlin.

In his peripherals he sees Merlin turn to him, the corners of his mouth turning up slowly. He then leans down to slip his shoes off, beckoning for Arthur to do the same. When he manages to tear his eyes from the water, he does so and watches Merlin run down to meet the waves. He kicks up cool sand in his wake. Arthur wipes the last bit of sleep from his eyes and follows. Their shoes remain up by the path, abandoned.

Merlin’s crouched over, slapping at the water with his hands like a child.

“How did you know this place?” Arthur asks over the sound of the sea.

“I’ve been here loads of times. I thought you might like it.”

“I do,” Arthur answers honestly. He kicks at the flood tide and water splashes on Merlin’s wrists.

Arthur lifts his sweatshirt off and holds it in his hand, calculating. The wind feels nice on his bare chest and he sighs.

Merlin stands up. “What’re you doing?”

“D’you want to swim?”

“In there?” Merlin asks, appalled.

“No,” Arthur answers, “I thought it’d be fun to swim up on the sand.”

Merlin flips him off.

“Is that a yes?”

“No way.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Merlin replies, concern sweeping over his moonlit face, “Arthur, there are _things_ in there!”

Arthur puts a hand on his hip. “What kinds of things?”

“I dunno, like, _sharks_ and shit!”

“You’re afraid of the ocean,” Arthur smirks.

“So what if I am?”

“You made fun of me for being afraid of needles.”

“Yeah, well, sharks are like, five million needles in one terrifying entity.”

“I can protect you from the sharks. I’m very strong.”

Merlin rolls his eyes but beams all the same.

“There is no way I’m going in there, shithead, protector-in-tow or not.”

“Alright, alright.”

Merlin toes at the wet sand. “…But you can leave your shirt off.”

Arthur scoffs but keeps his sweatshirt in his hand, loving the feel of the gentle wind over his skin. It’s not exactly shirtless weather, but Arthur doesn’t want to give that feeling up yet. Looking out at the open sea, shining and quivering, he feels free.

“Besides,” Merlin pipes up, “we’re not here for the beach.”

“We’re not?” Arthur furrows his brow.

Merlin shakes his head and grins somewhere past Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur turns.

A tall, shadowy tower stands in the distance. Arthur can make out red and white stripes on the cylindrical structure, winding their way around and around to the very top. Moonlight glares off the glass surrounding the lantern room. Arthur stares in awe.

“Let’s go,” Merlin insists, and pulls Arthur along down the beach with two fingers in the front pocket of his jeans.

Arthur goes willingly. He savors the odd but wondrous feel of the soft sand beneath his feet. As they walk, waves roll in and gently lap at their ankles. The bright, full moon, the tall grass dancing in the strong wind up by the path, and the shimmering waves of the vast ocean are all beautiful. But Arthur can’t seem to take his eyes off of Merlin. This is how he knows he’s in way too deep (and probably has been for some time now). The breeze blows tufts of his dark hair every which way and lifts his t-shirt from his lower back so that Arthur can see the tree’s trunk and some roots where they disappear into the waist of Merlin’s jeans. Merlin’s fingers are still in his pocket, pulling him forward. A sleeve of the sweatshirt clutched in Arthur’s hand drags over the ground. It creates a shallow divot in the sand.

The lighthouse looks giant as it looms over the two of them. The moon peeks out half-way from behind it, creating a sliver of white light on Merlin’s face. He grins at Arthur but before he can go for the door, Arthur yanks him back by his shirt.

“Wait,” Arthur says, “don’t these things have security measures?”

Merlin shrugs, “Who cares?”

“I do,” Arthur frowns.

“I’ve done this before and nothing’s ever gone wrong. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“We could get into trouble!”

Merlin barks out a laugh, “What is this, high school? Arthur, haven’t you ever wanted to do something a little dangerous?”

“No.”

“Something a little illegal?”

“Definitely not.”

“Something to get your blood pumping?”

Arthur can think of a few things that could do that, and they definitely don’t involve breaking into lighthouses. He keeps this thought to himself. Merlin smiles at Arthur’s silence and finally releases his pocket.

“Now come on,” he’s insisting, “help me pry this door open.”

They manage to push it through after a minute, and it makes an unbearable squeaking sound that causes the hair on the back of their necks to stand up. Merlin steps tentatively into the darkness and waves Arthur in when he realizes he’s not following. Arthur steps through the doorway reluctantly, bracing himself for some kind of alarm. When it doesn’t come, he lets out a breath. Merlin makes a face at him.

“You have to admit, it’s a little bit exciting.”

Arthur hates that he can’t disagree. His heart is beating a little quicker than he’s comfortable with, but he likes it; the feeling of doing something he knows he shouldn’t. It’s not often that he finds himself deviating from what is established. Even in school, he’d rarely attend parties in favor of studying (mostly to impress his father with knowledge that he can’t even remember now. What a stupid waste of time, Arthur realizes, shaking his head). Their footfalls create hollow shuffling sounds in the dark, circular room. A steel spiral staircase is erected in the very center.

Merlin pulls him by the wrist as he climbs and Arthur wonders if he knows that he would follow him mostly anywhere voluntarily. But he lets Merlin’s fingers, still damp from the sea earlier on, curl around his wrist anyway and enjoys the contact. With every step, it sounds more and more as if the staircase is going to fall apart. Arthur climbs it with care, eyes darting to the ground every second to glare at the steps warily. He wonders about the most recent time it’s been used. Judging by the nearly opaque cobweb Merlin skitters under as they reach the lantern room, it can’t be anything less than a few years.  


* * *

  
“It’s gorgeous,” Arthur says breathlessly as he gazes out at the sea.

Merlin nods enthusiastically at his side. His legs dangle from the lighthouse’s gallery, swinging back at forth with the wind. Arthur’s remain tucked safely under him decidedly after looking over the side at the ground far below. Merlin rests his chin on the middle guard rail and sighs. Arthur does the same, shifting his focus to the rolling waves of the ocean. They’re noisy, but the foreign sound is welcomed by Arthur’s ears. As is the strong wind that continues to sift through their hair. It’s getting chillier and Arthur wants to put his sweatshirt on but doesn’t have the motivation to reach for it. So instead he sits, calmly regarding the scene in front of him. Occasionally, the moonlight twinkles off of the silver ring on his index finger.

“Myrddin,” Arthur says softly, “why are we here?”

Merlin turns to look at him. In his eyes, there’s not much of anything. Even the usual spark is missing, stamped out by something bigger. Arthur sees the faint line that appears between Merlin’s eyebrows whenever he thinks really hard about something. He waits.

“It’s been exactly a year.”

Immediately, Arthur think’s he’s talking about how long they’ve known each other. It can’t be that long, can it? No; Arthur had almost had to wear gloves when he’d first started going to Guinevere’s. It’s not nearly wintertime again yet, he thinks cheerfully, the cool wind blowing at his bare chest.

“Since Will.”

“Oh,” Arthur says aloud, completely blindsided.

So that’s why they’re here. The wind shoves at him again, pressing a memory into his head. He and Merlin at Merlin’s flat, no more than a fortnight ago. Merlin had been painting. He had been painting, Arthur remembers; this is because of the red and white paint splotches he’d left behind on his own blanket after diving onto his bed next to where Arthur had been sitting, still in his painting shirt. The canvas had remained blank in one corner. Arthur had patted at Merlin’s back, huffing out laughs at Merlin’s decree that he was too tired to finish it.

He focuses on the memory, slipping back into his own shoes and trying to remember what had been on the canvas. Surely, Arthur remembers his words. He tells him of the last time he’d ever seen Will. He tells him about how he’d felt that night, alive and free and complete with Will by his side. How he felt for months and months and months after that feeling had been taken away. Then Merlin had recalled on when he and Arthur had first met; that after a few times seeing him he began to recognize the butterflies again. They’d awoken, creeping out of their gray cocoons and fluttering about. He’d told Arthur he’d began feeling like himself again. The statement had lit a spark in Arthur. He’d felt warm and sturdy, glad to be someone Merlin could lean on. That spark burns on to this very second. Arthur hopes it never goes out.

“I’m so stupid,” Merlin clamors suddenly, bashing a palm to his temple. “Why would I bring you here? You don’t want to be here! God, what was I thinking?”

“What are you—”

The memory resurfaces again, and Arthur can practically feel himself sitting on Merlin’s bed in that moment. Merlin’s warm presence was lying next to him and he’s staring ahead at the nearly-finished canvas. He remembers the block of cyan on the top half and the speckled tan at the bottom, coming together near the middle with something grand in the corner. Red and white streaked the cylinder as it interrupted the other colors, shooting through nearly half of the canvas. The realization comes to Arthur calmly, as if he’d known it all along.

“This lighthouse,” Arthur breathes. _The last place you ever saw him_.

“We can leave. Can we leave, now? Let’s go. Why did I do this to you?” Merlin’s rambling urgently, face pressed into his hands. 

It’s so out of character that Arthur only stares for a second, eyebrows furrowed. He doesn’t envy what Merlin’s feeling right now; isn’t exactly sure what it is. Arthur’s never lost someone the way Merlin has, relying on only what Merlin tells him it’s like. Arthur knows the loss had ripped through him like a comet. He’s just proud that Merlin’s strong enough to relocate those parts of himself lost in the wreckage. Arthur imagines what he’d do. He wonders if he’d ever even begin to look for those lost pieces of himself. He’d let the wound remain gouged open and fester. Merlin’s stronger than he could ever be, this Arthur knows. When Merlin begins to stand up, Arthur presses him back down with a hand on his shoulder.

“This is the lighthouse you painted.”

Merlin looks over at him warily and nods.

“It’s beautiful,” Arthur says, overcome with something. He blames it on the salinity of the air. He repeats, “It’s beautiful. The painting is beautiful. You are _beautiful,”_ Arthur insists with vigor. “Everything you do. How do you do it? How did I get to be here with you right now? You’re beautiful, Myrddin, _fuck._ ”

Arthur covers his own face now, color surfacing on his cheeks. He hides his face in his hands quickly before he accidentally shouts a fucking marriage proposal, too. And he knows, he _knows_ he shouldn’t be making proclamations like this. Especially not at the place where the recipient last saw his dead boyfriend. He wants to slam his head onto the guard rail in front of his nose to avoid the repercussions of his verbal diarrhea. Arthur sighs at himself.

“I’m sorry—I shouldn’t—I mean, you—”

“If only you saw yourself the way you see me,” Merlin finally says.

The melancholic tone of his voice makes Arthur turn. Merlin’s already staring back, pupils dilated in the darkness and nearly drowning out the blue of his irises. His lips are slightly parted as if he’s going to say more. But silence continues to ring in between them, Arthur’s confusion evident on his face.

“You don’t even know how it is to be with you,” Merlin’s grinning at his lap, “I’m the lucky one, trust me.”

Arthur shakes his head, pressing a hand to Merlin’s leg to get him to look at him.

“I was lost before I met you.”

Merlin chuckles, “You’re still lost.”

“Okay, fine,” Arthur puffs out a laugh. He brings his hand back to his own lap and says, “But you’re like a map.”

“A map? Because I’m flat and square and have ink all over me?”

“Actually, I think most maps are rectangular.”

“Prat.”

“No, what I mean is,” Arthur sighs, “I feel like you’re leading me in the right direction.”

Merlin grabs his hand, puts it back on his leg. Arthur stills for a long second before gripping lightly. He can’t help but grin down at the grimy steel floor in between them. The warmth Merlin’s always radiating makes itself known and Arthur revels in it.

“It’s the least I can do for the one who’s helping me put myself back together.”

Arthur nods, thinking. He then removes his hand from Merlin’s thigh, denying himself before he tries to do more and ruins this entire thing.

“So,” Merlin grins, “I’m your map, and you’re my pieces.”

“That’s right.”

“I’m okay with this.”

Merlin’s grin turns into a beam, two sets of white teeth showing in the darkness.

“I’m _so_ okay with this.”

There’s a flash beyond Merlin’s shoulder and for a second Arthur wonders if the lantern has come on. But it’s way too faint for that, and not to mention repeatedly blinking. The light flickers insistently against their backs until Merlin swings his legs up from the ledge and spins himself around.

“What the fuck?” he says.

There is one short wail in the distance; a siren. Arthur’s eyes grow wide.

“It’s the bloody police!” Arthur shouts, scrambling up. 

The sky is lighter now than it was before and when Arthur squints, he can see the police car parked haphazardly next to his. He snaps his eyes over to Merlin at his side and glares.

“You said there were no security measures!”

Merlin smiles guiltily. “I, er, didn’t think there were any.”

“Come on,” Arthur huffs and pulls Merlin up and along by the hand.

They start to run down the stairs, Arthur slowing when it starts making ungodly noises of protest. He can hear Merlin behind him chuckling but following all the same. The door is still ajar when they get to the first floor, wind howling through the gap. They step outside and stop. The sand is once again cool on the bottoms of Arthur’s bare feet.

“Should we just run?” Merlin asks.

Arthur turns to him and stares incredulously.

“No, we’re not going to _run_ ,”

His sprint down the stairs finally catches up with him and he doubles over, heaving out breaths.

“God,” Merlin pats his back, snickering, “You’re like an old man!”

“Shut up,” Arthur replies with effort.

“Oi, here they come,” Merlin says, pointing down the path. He pats Arthur’s back once more before continuing, “Man, it’s a good thing you told me not to run. That hot lady cop could probably catch me in a second.”

“Wait, what?” Arthur asks and lifts his head at last.

The shorter woman and tall, plump man reach the mouth of the path and make a bee-line for where Merlin and Arthur stand at the base of the lighthouse.

“They better not’ve kicked sand all in my shoes,” Merlin frowns.

Arthur feels like a child who’s been up past their bedtime and is now about to face the consequences. Actually, Arthur doesn’t think he’s ever spoken to a police officer before (except for the one that stands at all times in the lobby of the Pendragon Publishing tower). He wills his palms to not get sweaty. He glances to Merlin at his side, arms crossed over his chest as he stares at the two people in uniform, an indignant look on his face.

“You there!” the man yells, wagging his finger at them.

“Yeah?” Merlin asks.

“You’re not supposed to—”

“Oh, Christ almighty,” the woman groans suddenly.

“What is it?” the man asks, alarmed. He shoots looks at Merlin and Arthur like they’re going to flee at any second and maybe throw a rock at him as they do so. The woman pulls her cap off and a long, ebony ponytail falls to rest over her shoulder. Arthur stares, mouth agape.

“Morgana?” he questions, stepping forward.

“You know ‘im, Chief?”

“He’s my baby brother,” she sighs.

“ _Baby brother_ ,” Merlin repeats giddily, teetering to stick a finger in Arthur’s ear. Arthur swats him away.

“I’ll take care of this,” Morgana tells the man and he nods before retreating. She watches him bumble back toward the path before turning back around to face her brother. She puts her hat back on her head and narrows her eyes.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she inquires, arms flailing at her sides.

“Just…hanging out?”

“Just hanging out,” she deadpans. “In a lighthouse that’s been shut down for nearly a year on a beach that’s got to be at least two-hundred miles from your house.”

“Er…yeah?”

“Shirtless?”

Arthur looks down at his bare chest and blushes. He’d completely forgotten. That’s probably why the man (Arthur can see him over Morgana’s shoulder still making his way to the car) kept giving him and Merlin those weird looks. He blushes more furiously and pats at his chest like maybe a shirt will manifest if he thinks about it hard enough. He hears Merlin making a half-assed attempt to stifle his laugh behind him.

“…It would appear so,” Arthur replies meekly.

Morgana just stares at him with a hand on her hip. Arthur recognizes that expression from when he used to lock her out of the house for fun when they were small (it was all fun and games until she started to do the same thing to him when he wouldn’t let her put clips and bows in his hair). Merlin steps forward.

“I’m Merlin, Merlin Myrddin,” he chirps. “I can’t believe I'm only just now meeting Arthur's sister!”

“Half-sister,” Morgana supplies, and then the two of them turn to glare at him. 

Arthur flinches. He wants to sink right into the sand beneath them all. He gives what he hopes is a charming grin—Morgana rolls her eyes and Merlin beams at him on instinct. Arthur really didn’t expect anything different from either of them. The sun peeks over the now-uproarious sea and shines annoyingly in his eyes. Arthur lifts his arm to try and shield his face.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, “Could you give us a minute?”

“Sure thing, siblings,” he winks and takes off down the beach. Arthur can’t help but watch at the way the wind still blows Merlin’s shirt off his smooth skin. Morgana clears her throat and he directs his attention back at her, blinking.

Her glare finally dissipates and she turns up a corner of her mouth. Then suddenly she’s in his arms, her hands clasped tightly at his back. He can’t help but beam, months and months of going without seeing his sister coming to a crashing halt right then and there. Her hat has been knocked off her head and her raven hair is soft under his chin. Arthur drops his arms but Morgana holds on. Arthur can feel her smile on his shoulder. She pulls back and the orange light of the sun makes her emerald eyes twinkle, her heart-shaped face glowing. She’s more beautiful than Arthur remembers.

“How long has it been?” she asks, reading his mind.

“It has to be a year.”

“Would it have killed you to call? Or visit?”

“Hey,” Arthur shoves at her shoulder, “I could ask you the same!”

Morgana shrugs, sighing. “Probably not. But I figured you’d be busy with Uther and work and…I don’t know. Let’s just say we’re sorry, blah blah blah, and we’ll move past it. Make it easy.”

“I could use some easy right now,” Arthur grins.

“What the hell _were_ you doing here, anyway?” 

She then proceeds to look from Arthur’s naked chest to Merlin, who sits a ways up the beach. His legs are pointed straight out in front of him and he’s grabbing at the sand, watching it fall from where he holds handfuls of it in the air. Arthur grins, delighted by all of Merlin’s childlike qualities that he himself never seemed to possess. He looks back at Morgana.

“Whatever you’re insinuating,” Arthur says, “it didn’t happen.”

“Really? He looks pretty happy.”

“He always looks like that,” Arthur tells her wistfully.

“Right, well,” Morgana raises her eyebrows at him. She slips her toes under her hat on the sand at their feet and kicks it up impressively. She sets it right on her head and smooths down her hair before nodding at him, “I would ask you about work and life and whatnot but I’ve really got to get back on the job.”

“Let’s meet up for coffee soon,” Arthur smiles.

“There’s something different about you,” she smiles back and looks at him like she’s figured him out. “I don’t know what it is. But you seem brighter.”

“Like, smarter?”

“Like…” Morgana stops. She gasps, “I think my brother’s in love!”

“Half-brother,” Arthur jokes.

“You’re lucky you’re not in half-custody—”

“Good one.”

“—but I’ve really got to go. Call me later. And actually do it this time,” she demands, pointing a finger at him.

“I will.”

She grins at him once more before turning around and heading off. Arthur stands there still, at the base of the lighthouse, smile loose and unfaltering. He looks toward the orange sun turned yellow, casting its rays over the long stretch of beach in front of him. He looks toward the sea and the swaying grass up by the car park and the lighthouse that looms over him. And finally, he looks toward his sister and Merlin, waving at each other and beaming before Morgana turns away to trudge up the rocky path.

In that moment, he is sure he feels something more than happiness bumping at his ribcage.  


* * *

  
“Holy shit,” Arthur swears into his coffee.

“I know. I can’t believe it either. But he’s a keeper, I think,” Morgana says of her boyfriend of over ten months. She sips at her hot coffee gently. Her forefinger covers the _G_ in _Guinevere_ printed on the mug (customized cups and mugs were Arthur’s idea, thank you very much). 

“Shit,” she stares at him, eyes wide, “this is so good!”

“I _told_ you.”

“Totally worth the drive. You were right.”

“What’s his name again?”

“Who? Helios?”

“Helios,” Arthur snorts, “His name’s weirder than yours.”

“Weirder than _Merlin_?” she asks and Arthur chokes on his coffee.

“Fair enough.”

“Tell me why you love this place so much if you can’t even go inside.”

“Well, I can _eventually,_ when the mural’s done. He told me I can’t see it until it’s finished.”

“Maybe it’s a painting of you—”

“I really doubt—”  
  
“Nude.”

Arthur sets his coffee down and stares at her. “What is wrong with you?”

Morgana shrugs, “I don’t really know him that well, but from what I do know of him, I feel like that is very much a possibility.”

When Arthur doesn’t deny it, she smirks.

“So, how’s work?”

Arthur automatically groans and tugs at his tie.

“Wow. That bad?”

“You wouldn’t believe,” he confesses.

Morgana had always been interested in his and his father’s work. It hadn’t been until college that she’d announced to them she would be denying Uther’s offer in order to go into law enforcement. Initially, their father had been reluctant. Over time, however, he learned to be proud of her for blazing her own trail. This pride seemed to completely pass Arthur by. He remembers being bitter about it for years before that jealousy ebbed away to make room for apathy.

Through it all, he never held any resentment toward his sister. This came as a surprise even to Arthur, whom resentment comes easily to. Instead, he supposes those vexatious feelings had nestled deep in him and he’d been radiating them out in segments towards his father for years. They’d sure caught up with him now. Arthur only now realizes that he and his father haven’t spoken anything beyond niceties to each other in weeks. Morgana’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts.

“Uther seemed tired. The last time I saw him, I mean.”

Arthur doesn’t tell her that that was probably his fault.

“I think he’s going to fire me,” he says instead.

“ _Fire_ you?” Morgana’s jaw drops.

“Yes.”

“Why on earth would he do that?”

Arthur bites the inside of his cheek for a second before replying, “I haven’t exactly been on top of things there.”

Morgana clicks her tongue disappointedly and Arthur rolls his eyes.

“Don’t give me that. You don’t know what it’s like.”

“It can’t be _that_ bad, Arthur. You’ve got that great office—I’d kill for it—and a secretary. _And_ your salary is nothing to snub. Perhaps you’re being ungrateful.”

“Ungrateful,” Arthur huffs. “It’s not the job, really. It’s just…”

“Just what?”

Arthur won’t look at her. “It’s me.”

“What about you?” Morgana inquires, bringing her hand up to adjust her necklace.

“I can’t do it anymore. I’m so sick of it.”

She leans back in her chair, eyeing him with her eyebrows raised. He looks away and focuses intently on the potted plant on the table between them. He sees a couple of Merlin’s discarded cigarette butts stuck in the soil. The silence builds up for another minute until Morgana sighs.

“I never thought I’d say this,” she points at him, “but maybe you should leave Pendragon Publishing.”

“If you only knew how many times I’ve heard that.”

“What’s stopping you?”

Arthur’s mind is blank. The only thing he can think to say is, “…It’s all I’ve got.”

Morgana stares at him with her big green eyes.

“You know that’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” Arthur asks pathetically. His gaze shifts to the cigarette butts again.

“No. You’ve got me,” she grins widely.

“Yes.”

“You’ve got Merlin.”

“No I don’t.”

Morgana furrows her brow and kicks her leg out to fold it over the other one.

“It sure seems like you do. You should see the way he looks at you.” She whistles and glances back at the window of the shop. When she turns back around, she’s grinning again.

“It’s complicated,” Arthur sighs.

Despite their reunion, there are still some things that he doesn’t wish to share with his sister just yet. This is one of them. As if on cue, Merlin bursts through the door to the patio and stares between the two of them accusingly. He’s got a thick stripe of dark green paint under each eye like he’s going to a sports match. On either side of the bridge of his nose, there are two finger print-sized blotches of yellow. He points at Arthur with a blue fingernail.

“Were you two talking about me?”

“What are you talking about?” Arthur answers, willing no color to rise on his cheeks.

“My nose was itching.”

“I can see that.”

Morgana holds up a finger. “Wait, what?”

“They say your nose itches when someone’s talking about you. You didn’t know that?”

“That’s bullocks.”

Morgana laughs, “Apparently not.”

“So you _were_ talking about me,” Merlin concludes, eyebrows raised amusingly.

“You know, Merlin,” Morgana says casually as she smooths her skirt over her legs, “they also say your nose itches when someone wants to kiss you.” She then grins up at him and laces her hands over her knee innocently. Merlin looks between the two of them again and his beam widens.

“Sorry, Morgana,” he coos, patting her shoulder, “You’re not really my type. I’m more into blonds. Blonds with dicks. Dicks and a tiny scar on the back of their left thigh. You done with that?”

Merlin doesn’t wait for an answer and swoops in to grab her empty coffee mug. When he grabs Arthur’s, he purposefully runs his finger up his wrist before flitting away. The door shuts loudly behind him. Arthur heaves out a stuttering breath.

“Wow,” Morgana says, eyes bright and smile wide.

“Yeah,” Arthur agrees.

“How’d he know about your scar?”

“How d’ _you_ know about it?”

“Hey, I was the one who pushed you into that thorn bush, thank you very much.”

“Twenty-five years and I still hate you for it.”

“How much?”

“A lot.”

“Is that why you bought my coffee?”

“I just have a funny way of showing my hatred.”

Morgana laughs.

“Oh, Arthur. You’ve got a funny way of doing a lot of things.”

Merlin opens the door again just enough to stick his head outside, saying, “By the way, Gwen’s letting me put up a rod by the mural wall so I can throw a tarp over it when you come in. I’m sick of not being able to look over at you whenever I want.”

“Yes!” Arthur rejoices. “See Morgana, I _told_ you I wouldn’t be banished for too much longer.”  


* * *

  
“I’ve been meeting up with Morgana,” Arthur tells his father over coffee one morning.

Her name alone lights up his face. “Have you? And how is she?”

Arthur had stopped by Guinevere’s on his way to work. It was odd to be able to actually enter the building for the first time in weeks. He’d missed the jazz coming from the speakers and the smell and sounds of the shop. Arthur didn’t realize these little things made such an impact on his day. He tells Guinevere this much and she’d smiled, warm and genuine, as she handed the paper cups over to him and Arthur had been on his way.

Arthur’s decided to open the lines of communication, if only for fifteen minutes or so. He’d made himself sick with worry over the weekend ever since he’d voiced his concerns to Morgana. He wonders if his father would actually fire him or if Arthur would have to hit rock bottom before that would happen. He wonders what rock bottom could possibly be to his father. To anyone else, it might be showing up drunk and heaving a computer out the window. And then maybe vomiting on his secretary or tearing his shirt off and eating it. But to Uther, rock bottom could very well be falling asleep at his desk—which Arthur has done too many times to count. Arthur’s not sure where he sits with his father anymore. The lines are all blurry. 

He supposes he could say the same thing about Merlin. The last few weeks since the lighthouse, they've been getting closer. Physically closer, that is. It should be noted that this is a feat, considering Merlin, at any point in their friendship, has been oblivious to any sort of personal space issues that Arthur has. He’d crashed through those barriers long ago and Arthur had let him. But things feel different now. It’s not the same obliviousness that came with the early stages of them getting to know each other, and nor is it the careful tip-toeing around they’d do after the time they woke up in Merlin’s bed together.

Now they touch without thinking. They touch because they can. They touch simply because they are both there, with each other, breathing and laughing and talking and existing. Merlin will swing his legs over Arthur’s lap while they sit on the sofa together. Arthur will pull at the tight denim around Merlin’s ankles as Merlin explains to him why The Bachelor should choose Nicole rather than Sophia. Merlin will run his fingers over Arthur’s back when he walks behind him. Arthur will move his foot under Merlin’s chair, their ankles touching, while they sit at Arthur’s kitchen table. Arthur finds it exhilarating.

But he won’t say he’s not still hoping for more.

He thinks of Merlin’s soft touches when he’s lying in bed at night. Sometimes he punishes himself by getting even more turned on when Merlin’s in the living room right down the hall, asleep on the couch (he’s stopped needing to move into the hallway or to Arthur’s bed a long while ago—Arthur’s a bit disappointed, but he knows that for Merlin this is progress). He’s slipped up a few times and breathed a little too heavily, maybe uttered a syllable or two while he touches himself. If Merlin’s heard him, he hasn’t said anything. Arthur decides that he kind of wants him to.

The warm feel of the coffee cup in his hand breaks him out of his introspectiveness. He looks to his father. Uther stares at him expectantly. Oh, right.

“She’s good,” Arthur nods. “Really good.”

“I suppose it’s nice for the both of you to see each other.”

“It really is,” Arthur replies honestly. 

“That’s good to hear.”

“…I didn’t even realize how much I missed her.”

“She’s quite something,” his father smiles.

“Do you remember,” Arthur pauses, not sure if he should get too chummy. But at his father’s unfaltering grin, he continues, “when I was seven and she pushed me into that thorn bush in the woods behind her mum’s house?”

Uther laughs, loud and unabashed. Arthur marvels at the sight of it. A happy grin spreads across his own face. His father calms down and leans forward to tip his cup toward Arthur.

“You cried for a week about that,” he tells him, “and then you never cried again.”

“It _hurt._ ”

“Evidently so,” Uther chuckles.

“I’ve still got a scar.”

“You do not.”

“I sure as hell do.”

“Oh,” Uther reminisces amusedly, “you two always were the best of mates when you were younger. I have to tell you, Arthur, I’m glad you’re talking to one another again. Such a shame to waste a relationship like yours.”

“I feel the same, father,” Arthur smiles.

He’s not sure if it’s the coffee or the sun beaming through the giant windows of Uther’s office or the mention of Morgana, but his father has lit up like a bonfire. Arthur hasn’t seen him like this in years; hasn’t made the effort to. He watches the deep lines that form around Uther’s eyes when he smiles and thinks that he likes his father much more like this. He likes him much more like this than with his veins popping with frustration, leaning over his computer with a blank stare or berating Arthur about _responsibilities_. He makes a mental note to try harder. Not at his job, of course—he’s pretty sure that ship has sailed—but at connecting with his father. The happy lines around his father’s eyes say that it’s not a lost cause.

Arthur holds onto that.  


* * *

  
Now that they’re talking, Uther finds it appropriate that he try to set Arthur up with every semi-attractive and wealthy women he comes to know. The thought of it exhausts Arthur.

“Father, no.”

“I just don’t like the thought of you alone.”

Arthur instantly wonders when his father began caring about that. Had Arthur come off as lonely? He used to feel the loneliness, sure, but it was okay because it was of his own doing. Until he’d met Merlin, he didn’t mind it. But Merlin’s company is like a parade. He is loud and colorful and exciting and chaotic and without it, Arthur’s life feels much like an empty street.

“I’m not alone.”

“You’re going with someone?”

Arthur remains silent, tapping his pen against the top of his desk. His father is the absolute last person Arthur wants to discuss this with.

“Just a date. She’s lovely. I _promise_ you’ll like her.”

“I really don’t—”

“I’ve set you up for dinner tonight. Seven-thirty.” 

Uther slips a business card onto Arthur’s desk with the time and name of the restaurant scrawled on the back of it. Arthur feels queasy. When his father shuts the door on his way out, the ticking starts up.

“Fuck,” Arthur groans.  


* * *

  
The only semi-decent thing about Arthur going out tonight is that he gets to wear his new tan blazer.

The restaurant is one Arthur’s been to lots of times in the past, mostly for business occasions. When he pulled into the car park, he was surprised to see that Guinevere’s is just down the street. He’d gazed at it longingly before reluctantly ducking inside the tiny restaurant. A diamond chandelier hangs elegantly from the ceiling of the rectangular main room and shimmers in the dim light. Arthur’s always hated restaurants that insist on lights like these. He could roll out a sleeping bag and probably doze off right in the middle of the floor. He realizes it’s supposed to be mood lighting; romantic, even. The thought makes him grow anxious and he fiddles with the edge of the tablecloth as he waits. He’s finished his entire glass of ice water by the time the maitre d’ approaches.

“Sir, your date has arrived. I’ll fetch her,” he says.

Arthur wonders if his date is a squeaky ball or perhaps a rubber bone.

As he watches the host walk back toward the front of the restaurant, more of his anxiety begins to surface. He can’t remember the last time he’s been on a date. Late night meals and (admittedly tiring) shopping trips with Merlin come to mind, but he’s not sure if those qualify. In a broader sense, they probably do. Yet none of them, Arthur thinks begrudgingly, have ended in any sort of kiss or otherwise. But does this mean that they don’t count as dates? What, exactly, are the requirements that qualify something as a date?

Arthur thinks that he might be the absolute last person to ask this. Then he remembers his last actual date, with that model he’d met at a business function months and months and months ago. That was the last time he’d had sex, too. The thought makes him grimace. But he can’t continue on that miserable train of thought for too long because the maitre d’returns,  someone trailing behind him. When the petite woman steps out from behind him, Arthur’s eyebrows hit his hairline.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he gapes at the same time Mithian says, “Shit, really?”

The maitre d’ turns six shades of red and pulls the chair out for her when he realizes Arthur’s not moving. He then nods and flees. Arthur and Mithian stare at each other, similar looks of exasperation on their faces.

“I can’t believe this,” Arthur sighs.

“Hey, you’re not exactly my type either,” Mithian jibes.

“I didn’t mean it like that. Actually, I’m relieved,” Arthur admits, exhaling his nerves. “Wait, how the hell did my father get you to do this?” 

Mithian takes the pin out of her hair, letting it fall around her shoulders. It clinks against her salad fork as she sets it on the table. 

“He told me he had someone he was sure I’d hit it off with. It was one of the top five most awkward moments of my entire godforsaken life.”

Arthur laughs brightly, imagining it. When the waiter arrives, Mithian orders them a bottle of wine. Arthur can’t agree fast enough. He tells her his father had told him the same thing. He figures it has to do with the time he’d asked Arthur about the two of them dating. Uther must’ve thought Arthur was being coy. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

“Wait,” Mithian laughs, “You’re thirty-two and you’re letting your father set you up on dates?”

“You’re letting your boss set you up on dates?”

Mithian scoffs, “I couldn’t exactly refuse, could I?”

“That’s the spirit.”

“Shut up.”

“That’s hardly any way to speak to your date.”

“You wish I was your date. Look at this fucking dress,” she motions to herself, “I _rented_ it. Because I thought I was gonna get laid tonight. It figures this would happen to me.”

“I’ll pay for the dress,” Arthur says.

“Yes!” Mithian hisses, triumphant. “Because this is all your fault anyway.”

The wine comes and they fill both their glasses, sipping at them thirstily.

“How’s it my fault?” Arthur asks.

“For not telling your father you’re already seeing someone.”

Arthur stares into his swirling wine as he airs it.

“Don’t even try to tell me you’re not with that coffee shop bloke. I know you’re hitting that.”

“I’m not—” Arthur leans in and lowers his voice, “‘ _hitting that’_ , actually.”

“Yeah, but you wish you were. It’s okay, so do I. And a few other people on your floor.”

“ _What_?!” Arthur croaks.

“Nothing. So anyway, why haven’t you told your father?”

“What few other people on my floor?”

Arthur has fleeting thoughts about a complete staff renewal.

“No one. Isn’t this wine great?”

Arthur sighs agitatedly and answers, “I haven’t told him because Merlin and I aren’t exactly…together yet. And until we are, I’d rather keep it to myself.”

“Aren’t together yet?” Mithian laughs like it’s the funniest thing in the world, “Give me a break, Arthur.”

“What?”

“You two are so sweet with each other you give me toothache.”

Arthur can’t help but grin. Mithian rolls her eyes and throws her hands out.

“See? Look at that.”

“At what?”

“Arthur, I’ve known you for years. And not once have I ever seen you look anything but exasperated until you met Merlin. I’m not a relationship guru or anything, far from it, but I think that’s pretty fucking notable. It must take someone pretty spectacular to breach—” she pauses as their food arrives, “—your brooding exterior.”

Arthur twirls some noodles around a fork and insists, “I don’t have a brooding exterior.”

“I’m surprised your nose didn’t grow four feet just then and jab out one of my eyes.”

“Okay, fine.”

“That’s all I’m gonna say on the matter. Want some of this steak?” she asks, stabbing into the center of it with her fork. Juice flies from the hunk of meat and leaves a tiny stain on the white tablecloth. “It’s gotta be better than that wimpy-looking pasta.”  


* * *

  
Two bottles of red wine later, Arthur and Mithian make their way to the door of the restaurant with some effort. Upon exiting, the cool night air feels refreshing on Arthur’s face. Mithian thanks him for holding the door open and then gasps. She throws a hand over her heart.

“ _Coffee_ ,” she purrs.

“Fine,” Arthur agrees, “but you’re paying.”

They walk down the street to Guinvere’s. Arthur loves the way the neon purple ‘OPEN’ light in the window shines on the pavement. Arthur can still walk mostly steadily, thought he seems to have three, perhaps three and a half feet. This time, Mithian holds the door for him. He thanks her graciously as they enter the shop.

“Don’t you two look nice!” Gwen exclaims upon seeing them.

“Who’s that?” Merlin shouts from behind the hanging tarp.

“Arthur and Mithian,”

Merlin stumbles out so quickly he nearly trips over his own feet. He gives Arthur a once-over, eyes wide and mouth agape. He looks like Arthur’s just told him he’s going to Disneyland. 

“Wow, Arthur,” he breathes, “you look…wow.”

“Hey! What about me?”

Merlin’s so busy staring he doesn’t even hear her.

“You look lovely, Mithian!” Gwen answers for him. “Coffee, either of you?”

“Please,” she answers.

“How’s the mural, Myrddin?” 

Merlin snaps out of his daze to look over Arthur’s way. He walks to stand in front of him and futzes with his tie, answering distractedly. Merlin twirls his fingers around the fabric by Arthur’s throat. He knows Merlin’s not actually doing anything, but he likes the concentrated face Merlin makes in order to make it look like he is. Arthur does the same thing; brushing invisible specs of dust off of Merlin’s shirts and even sometimes tightening one of the thin leather bands at his wrist just to be closer.

“It’s awesome, of course.”

“Of course,” Arthur agrees.

“You reek of wine. Are you buzzed?”

“Maybe.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Myrddin,” Arthur coos, cupping Merlin’s face with his hands.

Merlin grins at him like he’s a toddler learning to speak.

“That’s my name,” he nods affirmatively. “What’re you dressed up for, anyway?”

Mithian slings an arm over Arthur’s shoulders and presses her face against his, saying, “We’ve just been on a wonderful date.”

“Ha,” Merlin deadpans, “That’s very funny. Oh wait, no it’s not.”

From behind the counter, Gwen laughs.  


* * *

  
Merlin insists on driving Arthur’s car back to his house for him. Arthur swears he’s fine, and by this time he is, but he lets Merlin drive anyway. The cold evening air over his skin as they walk into his house confirms Arthur’s sobriety. He’s rather pleased with the outcome of this night, considering what an anxious mess he’d been earlier. The music on the radio booms inside the car and Merlin sings along like he always does. Arthur wishes he could hear it more often.

“Do you want me to unlock the door? Or are you capable?”

“You loon,” Arthur rolls his eyes, “I’m not drunk.”

“Maybe we should get drunk, though,” Merlin suggests.

Arthur thinks for a moment. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

Arthur looks at him like, _duh,_ and Merlin’s mouth makes an ‘o’ shape. Instantly, tension wafts off of them both. Arthur unlocks his door and pushes it open. Merlin ducks in after him and flips all the lights on.

“You are very handsy when you get drunk,” Arthur says finally. Then he tilts his head and adds, “You are also very handsy when you’re not drunk. So.”

Merlin laughs brightly, slapping Arthur on the back and proving his point. The fan in the living room whirrs loudly, blades spinning so quick that a nearly opaque, white circle surrounds the center light bulb. Arthur’s keys make a sharp sound when he throws them on the counter. He wanders into the kitchen after Merlin, who’s peering into the open fridge. He throws Arthur a water bottle and pulls a can of coke out for himself. He turns around and leans against the counter.

“How does Mr. I Hate Everyone end up out to dinner with his human resources rep?” Merlin asks. “Or dare I say…his friend?”

Arthur sighs through a smile. “It was my father.”

“Mithian’s your father?”

Arthur throws a bottle cap at him before explaining the situation.

“And then Mithian walked in?”

“And then Mithian walked in.”

“So,” Merlin pops the top on his soda can and it hisses, “your father told you to go on a date with this mystery person and you just…did it?”

Arthur blinks. “What are you insinuating?”

He stares hard at Merlin, waiting. He waits for him to ask why he thinks he has to do these things for his father. He waits for Merlin to tell him that he’s his own person and should tell his dad to fuck off, especially when it comes to his love life. But Arthur knows this. Thinking back on it, he should’ve told Uther off. He should’ve told him he’d found somebody. He should’ve stood up, denied the offer with a polite grin and that should have been that. Uther had good intentions; Arthur knows that.

But it’s time to think for himself. He’s sat back and listened to his father’s commands for long enough, and Arthur thought that now he was in the habit of breaking out of that routine. Maybe accepting his father’s date suggestion was a setback. Arthur feels weak, too small in his skin. He looks from Merlin’s shoes back to his face, having no idea what he’s going to say once Merlin starts in on him.

But Merlin doesn’t accuse him of anything, only looks back at him, eyes soft.

“Myrddin?” Arthur prompts.

“Yeah?”

“What is it?” Arthur steps closer to him.

“Its nothing, I was just being dumb.”

“Nothing new there, then.”

Merlin half-grins, says, “Shut up,” and then frowns again.

“Come on.”

“It’s nothing, I just didn’t know you were going on dates.”

“What?” Arthur asks, brow furrowing.

“It’s fine if you are. Obviously, I mean, you can do whatever. I just didn’t know. That you were dating other people.”

Merlin’s sentences are short and chopped, spoken lowly as if forcing the words out from somewhere deep inside of himself. His finger circles the top of the soda can distractedly, looping over and over and over again as he continues.

“Er, I mean, not _other_ people, I just. I just didn’t think you were…dating…people.”

“I—”

“It’s fine, seriously,” Merlin nods at him, but everything in his voice says that it is Absolutely Not Fine. 

Arthur almost wants to laugh. He sees the hurt in Merlin’s eyes, thick and settled, but he takes a second before setting things straight. For once, Arthur loves not being the one so obviously pining. The situation is a nice reminder of what they have, and that it goes both ways. Merlin feels for him too. And it’s intense, unwavering, red-hot and all-consuming. It _has_ to be. Arthur sees the same ferocity stirring in Merlin’s eyes that he feels in his own. It’s the wanting paired with the not having. The storm is on edge, getting closer with every glance, every touch, every day. Arthur can feel it. Merlin _must_ feel it as well. He nearly trembles at the thought.

“It’s just, I…” Merlin trails off.

“Tell me,” Arthur demands.

A second of silence passes.

“I haven’t so much as thought of anyone else since I met you, Arthur. Don’t _need_ to. You’re all I could ever ask for.”

Merlin’s finger has stopped looping now and his eyes lower to somewhere around Arthur’s elbow. Arthur truly doesn’t know how he lived before he hears these words from Merlin’s perfect mouth, pink and pouting. Pouting probably because he still thinks Arthur’s dating other people. His head feels light, like it might detach from his neck and float away like a child’s lost balloon.

“How?” is all that comes out when Arthur opens his mouth.

“How what?” Merlin asks. His confession has left him breathless.

“How could you possibly think I’d want to be with anybody else?”

This is when Merlin should leap to him, wrap his arms around his neck and kiss him hard. This is when Arthur would, in turn, put his hands on Merlin’s sides and lean into his warm body, arching and inviting. Arthur’d touch his face and run his hands over his back, pausing to trace his fingers along the tree branches there. He’d lay Merlin down and lick at each leaf and Merlin would gasp and sigh in a way that would make Arthur’s cock twitch in his pants. They’d make love then, at last, on whatever surface they’d manage to find first. It would be hot and glorious and admittedly quick but oh so _marvelous._

But everything about Merlin in this moment screams _love,_ and Arthur’s not going to ruin that by trying to take it farther. A twitch of the lips-turned-smile lights up Merlin’s face and Arthur stares back. In the silence, the fridge can be heard humming and so can the fan in the other room. Arthur can practically see both of their thoughts floating between them, suspended in the air. He wants to reach out and touch them. He’d frame and keep them for decades.

Arthur’s grateful for Merlin’s ever-expressive face, saying all the words that have yet to pass his lips. Arthur’s never been good at words. He likes that this doesn’t matter to Merlin, because he’s not either. They’re two jumbled messes who, somehow, straighten each other out. Things make _sense_ with Merlin. Even in this silence that should feel awkward, all things seem so right. Arthur’s life has become a puzzle and the pieces that matter the most to him are finally coming together.

They both start when Arthur’s cell phone chirps from the counter.

Arthur answers, “Morgana?”

Merlin hops to his side. “Tell her I say hi,” he urges, voice a bit rough with leftover emotion.

Arthur does as he says and then listens to his sister as she insists on meeting him for a late dinner. Something in her voice sounds off and it makes Arthur’s brow furrow. Despite not being hungry in the slightest (and also not wanting to leave Merlin), he affirms he’ll meet her downtown.

“Shit, I’ve got to go,” he says to Merlin as he clicks off the call. “You can stay here. I shouldn’t be long. I’m not sure what’s gotten into her.”

“Can you even drive?”

“For the last time, Myrddin, I’m _not drunk._ ”

Merlin snickers and lays a hand on Arthur’s upper arm. It’s a light but meaningful touch, and Arthur leans into it.

“I’ll see you later.”

“If I’m lucky.”

Arthur huffs out a laugh and grabs his keys.  


* * *

  
When he arrives at the restaurant she’d told him of, it’s clear that Morgana had chosen the nicest one that could possibly still be open this late at night. Arthur straightens his tie habitually and finds her at one of the small, circular tables near the back of the room. He winds his way to where she sits, all other tables mostly empty, and sits down across from her.

“Why?” Arthur asks shortly.

Her contagious smile is like a magnet, forcing the corners of Arthur’s lips upward as well. She looks great as always, if a little frazzled. Her fingers are void of rings and her make-up looks rushed. Arthur leans across the table to place a hand lightly on top of hers.

“Is everything alright? Are you alright?”

Morgana raises an amused eyebrow at him and pulls her hand out from under his, laughing.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” she says. “How’s Merlin?”

“He’s well. I was just with him.”

Her eyebrow climbs higher up her forehead. “Is that so? Is that why your hair’s all rucked up?”

Arthur lifts a spoon up to look at his reflection and then frowns.

“My hair is immaculate as always.”

“I’m only joking. I just wanted to know if you two have done the deed yet.”

“Is that your business?”

“ _Duh,_ it’s my business. I’m looking out for my little brother’s purity—”

“Please stop—”

“Making sure his sweet flower is—”

“Morgana,” Arthur groans, using his mirror/spoon to tap her hand scoldingly.

She retracts her hand and rubs soothingly at her affronted knuckle. She says, “Kidding, kidding. I know it’s a delicate situation.”

There’s a small, awkward silence. Someone at another table coughs into their napkin.

“I raced across town this late at night for you to ask me if I’m having sex?” Arthur deadpans, bemused.

Morgana rolls her eyes. “You caught me.”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up!”

“Is that any way to talk to your only brother?”

“Is that any way to talk to your elders?”

“Amazing,” Arthur comments. “You never used that card as a child and now here we are, twenty years later, and you pull it out.”

“Well, we’ve got to make up for all that lost time.”

Arthur smiles fondly at her.

She grins back and takes a sip of ice water. Her fingers leave prints in the condensation on the outside of the cool glass. Arthur watches a single drop slide smoothly down and get sucked into the red tablecloth underneath.

“Glass of wine?” he suggests.

“No.”

Arthur pauses. “Really?”

“Well, I would,” Morgana says, “but I’m afraid the baby might come out with six eyes or something.”

Arthur’s jaw drops.

“The…the baby?!” he shouts.

A few parties at nearby tables turn to glare at him but he can’t take his eyes off of Morgana. She nods once and then a giant beam attaches to her face like she’d been trying to hold it in since Arthur had arrived. Her eyes are huge and glistening with joy, and Arthur imagines his own don’t look too different. He leaps up from his chair and hugs her around the shoulders, rocking her back and forth with his excitement.

“I can’t believe it!” he sputters, voice strained.

“I know, I know,” Morgana replies as she pats at his back.

Arthur releases her and when he pulls back, wide smiles haven’t left either of their faces. Arthur’s just so glad they reconnected before this major installment in her life. He can’t imagine the shame he’d feel if he had found out through their father or a letter in the mail, perhaps a frilly invitation to the baby shower. Exuberance flutters in his stomach.  
  
“And it’s Helios’s?”

“No,” she drones, “I actually met this great Cuban drug lord a few months ago and it’s his. Surprise!”

“It wouldn’t be _that_ big of a surprise—”

“Hush, you. Of course it’s Helios’s. We’re ecstatic.”

“So am I,” Arthur says truthfully.

He stares at his sister with her great big emerald eyes and her beautiful smile and he knows she’s going to be a great mother. He tells her so and Morgana rolls her eyes but beams all the same. She pats his hand and Arthur beams back.

He mentally adds another, tiny piece to his puzzle-life.  


* * *

  
When he gets back to his house, it’s not quite midnight. Merlin’s gone.

There’s a note on the counter that reads: _A— Went to work on mural. Stole a pint of ice cream from the fridge, but it doesn’t matter since I’m pretty sure you buy them for me anyway. Do you even like coconut? I don’t think you do. Anyway, I’ll be at the shop. See you soon —MM_

There’s a heart scrawled by Merlin’s signature. It’s a small and silly thing but it still makes Arthur light up like a firework. He slides the note to the edge of the counter, not planning on moving it any time soon.

He sleeps soundly and straight through the night.  


* * *

  
Arthur’s packing up his desk to leave when Uther all but skips into his office.

“Have you heard?” he asks, a bright grin making him look nothing like the ruthless, cutthroat businessman he’s supposed to be.

“Morgana,” Arthur nods as he stuffs his laptop into its bag, “Can you believe it?”

“I’m overjoyed,” Uther muses.

To be honest, Arthur sort of thought Uther would have something to say about Morgana being an unwed mother, but his face gives no sign of it. He looks younger, refreshed. Arthur can hardly see his father playing with the baby, cooing at it softly and sighing with fond impatience when it spits up all over one of his good shirts. But maybe this rejuvenation is just what Uther needs to soften up, and also to get his mind off of the company. There’s a slight twist of guilt in his gut as he realizes that he should be helping take that load off. He shakes it off and states his agreement with his father’s delight. 

Even the mere mention of the coming baby has smoothed out many of the lines on Uther’s forehead. The spring in his step isn’t missed on Arthur, either. He thinks that perhaps, along with helping his sister in creating a family of her own, this could be a giant step toward bringing his family back together for good. He’s too joyous to think himself selfish for wanting that.

“I’ve got to get back to a conference call,” Uther says. He walks out of his office and then stops, poking his head back in. He lowers his voice as he says, “And I’m sorry again for the pseudo-blind date.” Uther drums his fingers against the metal frame of the doorway. ”I thought you were being reticent when you told me you weren’t attracted to her.”

“That’s alright. Just…no more of those, please.”

Uther nods.

“And, um, father,” Arthur takes a breath before continuing, “I’m actually seeing someone.”

Uther’s eyes go from puzzled to intrigued to pleased all in a matter of five seconds.

“Well,” he replies, “I’ll be happy to meet them when you deem it appropriate.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, son.” Uther flashes a quick grin and then exits.

Arthur lets out a long breath. It leaves him feeling lighter.

The thought of Uther meeting Merlin is nothing short of hysterical. Arthur knows his father would be expecting some refined businesswoman, gorgeous and made-up in a dress and heels and whatever else he thinks his son likes. Perhaps she’d speak a bit of french and her father and grandfather own a large chain of boutiques, which has accumulated so much money over the last seventy years that she bathes in it. Just thinking about this fictional woman is boring Arthur to tears. He’d love to see the look on his father’s face when Merlin trips in through the doorway, loud and carefree and radiating spontaneity. Shirt loose (because it would most likely be Arthur’s) and jeans tight with paint swiped over them like he’d just rolled off a wet canvas. He speaks no french and is instead half-fluent in Klingon and swears too much. And then there’s the small matter of the tattoos and the cigarette smoking.

Arthur laughs brightly to himself. He hasn’t ever laid Merlin out like that in his own head and when he does, it amuses him to no end. Never, ever in his life has Arthur guessed he’d end up with someone like Merlin Myrddin, the muralist.

He pauses in mid-staple when he realizes the term he’d used: _end up_. Yes, Arthur nods absently to himself, Merlin would be the end for him. Another possibility just isn’t plausible. Arthur can’t even bring himself to think of it. Merlin is it for him, and all the gears in Arthur’s head fit perfectly together as he muses. He sees a future with Merlin in a way he hadn’t even seen for himself alone for years now. He wants Merlin in his head, in his house, in his arms, in his bed, in his life, for the rest of it.

Arthur hasn’t been so sure of something for a very long time.  


* * *

_  
I haven’t so much as thought of anyone else since I met you, Arthur._

_I haven’t so much as thought of anyone else since I met you, Arthur._

_I haven’t so much as thought of anyone else since I met you, Arthur._

For the next few weeks, his life is riddled with this statement. It replays itself over and over again in his head like a wonderful broken record. More often than not, he finds himself staring off into space and thinking about it. Arthur thinks about how when he left Guinevere’s the first time he’d went after hours, Merlin was thinking about Arthur. When Gwaine was in town and looking for a birthday bang, Merlin was thinking about Arthur. When Merlin flirted harmlessly with whipped cream at blokes at the coffee shop, he wound up only thinking about Arthur. As he flicks his wrist and moans into the darkness of his bedroom, back arching off the bed, Merlin thinks about Arthur. When Merlin is making coffees or painting or stocking cups, he is thinking about Arthur. When he’s working on his mural and Arthur sits in his office miles and miles and miles away, Merlin is thinking of Arthur.

This is what keeps Arthur going. This, his sister-with-baby-bump, and lattes with a shit ton of whipped cream.  


* * *

  
Arthur hasn’t gotten laid in over six months.

The realization makes him frown so deeply that Mithian has to shake his shoulder to snap him out of it. He insists that he’s fine and when she leaves his office, the frown immediately reattaches itself to his face. He realizes he could probably go to the nearest bar, even midday, and successfully pull just to end this dry spell. He only wonders about it for a short second before the thought repulses him. Of course, he’s wanked enough times in the last half-year for an entire army. He’s even fingered himself, which he only does when he’s super desperate. And he _is_ , damn it, he is desperate. 

The lithe curve of Merlin’s torso as he paints is enough to drive Arthur to drooling these days. When Merlin casually changes into another t-shirt before they leave to get dinner, Arthur has to stop himself from whining like some starved, demented dog. He doesn’t miss Merlin’s eyes dragging over his own form at times, too. He knows he wants it. It’s all so obvious that neither of them even try to hide it anymore. Their touches seem to be charged (but granted, it’s always felt this way to Arthur).

Arthur knows that when they finally do have sex, he’s not going to last long. Obviously, Merlin will understand. After all, it’ll most likely be the same for him. Arthur thinks a lot about the time he’d woken up with Merlin on top of him, pressing him down into his bed. He’s thought about it so often that he can recreate that heat with his mind and revel in it as he strokes himself through another orgasm, long and slow with an expert hand. He feels Merlin’s firm hipbone under his hand and when he closes his eyes, he can imagine his tattoo. He sees the leaves and the limbs and the trunk and the start of the roots before they disappear under the waistband of Merlin’s boxers. He never thought of himself as having a photographic memory until this.  


* * *

  
Merlin’s been leaving sticky notes all over Arthur’s house for the last week. He’s found them on the bathroom mirror, on the wall under the shower head, on the television screen, on the kitchen counters, in and on the fridge, even in Arthur’s suit coat pocket and in one of his shoes.

They count down the days until Merlin’s done with the coffee shop mural.

The most recent one he’d discovered (inside his pillowcase, what the hell Myrddin) had read: _Two fucking days!!!!!!!! Are you nervous? I sure am._ He’d beamed and slid it into the drawer of his nightstand with the others. He can’t think of anything Merlin could possibly be painting that he’d needed to hide it from Arthur for over a month now. He’s wracked his entire head and not even the faintest idea surfaces. He thinks that perhaps the mural is of him, but then Arthur figures he’s just being narcissistic. But it would explain the secrecy.

He glares at the tarp that covers the wall and asks Gwen if she knows what it is. She nods, lips pressed tightly together as if she might blurt it out if she opens her mouth. Arthur presses her for hints (not too hard, though; Merlin would be wrecked if he ruined the surprise) but Gwen puts her hands on her hips and looks at him like he’s asked her to pull up her skirt. Arthur backs off, hands thrown up in surrender, and grumbles something about adamant baristas and their hidden agendas.

The next day when he walks into Guinevere’s, Merlin vaults out from behind the tarp and comes to him. He leans his forehead against Arthur’s shoulder as his arms hang limply at his sides.

“One day,” he groans.

“I thought you’d be more excited,” Arthur says concernedly.

“It’s been a long week.”

“Well, yes. You’ve been here painting for the last,” Arthur checks his watch, “four days straight. When you’ve found the time to leave all those notes is beyond me.”

“Me too. But I couldn’t help myself.”

“I’ve kept them all,” Arthur says.

Merlin lifts his head from Arthur’s shoulder to grin fondly at him.

“You would.”

Merlin blinks tiredly and pokes at Arthur’s jacket.

“Look what I’ve done.”

Arthur stares down at the faint stripe of teal blue paint on his lapel. He doesn’t even remember any part of Merlin touching there. This happens so frequently that it fails to surprise Arthur anymore. He rolls his eyes and sighs mockingly.

“You goon,” he scolds. “Why’ve you got to be so colorful?”

“Why’ve you got to be so prone to color?”

Arthur smiles, taps his middle and forefinger against the inside of Merlin’s wrist.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Hey, me either.”

“Cripes,” Gwen whines from behind the till, “I miss the days when I didn’t let you put up the tarp and Arthur wasn’t allowed in.”

Arthur just winks at her.  


* * *

  
The final note is wrapped around Arthur’s toothpaste tube. He unrolls it and reads: _Morning, sweet stuff. Today is the day. Come to Gwen’s at 7. —mm_

Immediately, Arthur feels as if he’s going to vibrate out of his bones. He brushes his teeth and takes a shower and gets dressed for work but it all goes by in a blur. By the time he’s walking out the door, he still has nearly half a day to wait until the big reveal. He invites Morgana out to lunch (his treat) to kill some of that time and hopefully be distracted from his constant mural-related thoughts.

It’s gotten to the point where the baby’s showing enough to change the way Morgana walks. Her belly protrudes slightly into her black silk dress and she pats it upon sitting down. Arthur looks from her middle up to her face and suddenly understands the pretty pregnancy glow he hears people talk about. Morgana is lit up like a fire on a cold day. Her green eyes shimmer happily as she sips at her ice water and Arthur can’t get enough of it.

“It’s totally bizzarre,” she’s saying with a look of distaste. “People think they can just waltz up and touch my stomach and coo. That shit does not sit right with me.”

“With me either,” Arthur agrees.

“It’s like suddenly it’s everyone’s property. Like my baby bump is open to the public.”

“You should tie a ribbon around it and let me cut it—”

“—with a pair of those giant scissors,” Morgana finishes with an amused expression.

“And then charge for each pat.”

“And double it if they lean in closer or put their ear to it.”

Arthur screws up his face. “Do people do that?”

“You bet your ass they do. I flicked one of the other officer’s ear so hard yesterday she said it still hasn’t stopped ringing.”

Arthur laughs into his soda and it dribbles down his chin. He wipes it quick with a folded napkin before giving his sister a thumbs up. She nods gracefully, head bowed like a princess. Arthur looks at the thousands of dollars wrapped around her wrist and across her neck and thinks it’s not such a stretch; in fact, he thinks it’s quite impressive how one hour she can be holding a gun and the next, festooning herself with diamonds. If Arthur remembers right, her mother always did have expensive taste. And it’s no doubt that Uther did—still does.

“But anyway,” Morgana says, “just because I’m living with this bowling ball on my groin for the next million weeks doesn’t mean I have to talk about it. Don’t let me become one of those people.”

“What? Excited mothers?”

Morgana plucks a grape from the fruit plate in the middle of the table and pops it in her mouth with cherry red fingernails. She nods.

“Anyway,” she says again, “what’re you up to?”

“Working. And then I’m off to Guinevere’s to meet Merlin. Guess what?”

“You’ve finally given him a right seeing to?”

Arthur glares at her. “Guess again.”

“Careful,” she warns, “or you two might end up as just friends.”

Arthur is terrified for an entire millisecond and then raises an eyebrow.

Flatly, he replies, “I really don’t think so.”

Morgana shrugs and leans back in her chair. Arthur can practically hear the _if you insist_ even if she says nothing. He splays his hands out on the table and leans in, eyes lighting up as he tells her.

“I finally, _finally_ get to see the mural tonight.”

“Seriously?”

“So seriously. Morgana, I’m so excited I could throw up.”

She pulls the fruit plate closer to her and pats his arm.

“I know you are, Arthur. Hard to believe I didn’t even know him when he started it.”

“Huh,” Arthur grunts, “that is hard to believe.”

It feels like Arthur’s been reconnected with his sister for years now. Decades had flown by but they’ve have managed to come out on the other side unscathed, unaffected by the frailty and distance that time brings. He must say he’s rather proud of them both. And to think that it all leads back to the lighthouse; what if Arthur had denied Merlin’s post-midnight impromptu road trip? He truly couldn’t be happier with the way things turned out. It’s an odd feeling, these things coming together for him in his life. He’s so used to the things that he wants skittering just out of his grasp while laughing coyly or perhaps not even manifesting at all. He looks back to his sister who’s also lost in her own thoughts. She then meets his stare.

“What are you thinking about?”

“The lighthouse,” Arthur answers.

Morgana smirks. “You are a dumbass.”

“It wasn’t my idea!”

“I can honestly say that that was one scenario I never would have thought I’d see you in. Baby brother Arthur Pendragon with his books and suits and tie pins—”

“Did Myrddin tell you about those?”

“—and _rules_ and nonexistent people skills and shiny shoes, breaking into an abandoned lighthouse just because. You’re lucky it was me who received the call.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says seriously. “We both are.”

Morgana smiles and breaks the moment, asking, “When do you get to see the mural?”

Arthur checks his watch, sighs, and throws his head back in resignation.

“Six hours from now. Six miserable, gut-wrenching hours.”

“Sorry brother, but you’re going to have to face them on your own. I’m afraid I’ve got to get back to work.”

“What does a pregnant police officer even get to do?”

Morgana sighs, “Just some very minor fieldwork.” She stands and slings her coat over her arm, leaning down to add, “To be honest, I’m kind of sick of it.”

“Yeah,” Arthur nods, “I know how that feels.”

She puts her hand on his shoulder.

“I know you do.”

She departs, leaving Arthur alone at the table. He pushes some cantaloupe around on the plate but he’s not really hungry. He finishes his water and the rest of Morgana’s. The maitre d’ buzzes through the crowded restaurant, stopping occasionally at specific tables like they’re flowers and he’s a bee collecting pollen. Arthur watches him absently. He folds and unfolds his napkin. The next time he looks at his watch, he’s only twenty minutes closer to seeing Merlin’s mural.

Morgana’s words circle like hungry sharks in his head: _I’m kind of sick of it_. Arthur huffs, making a waitress glance down at him as she passes. He remembers when he first started detaching himself from his work. Arthur remembers the swirling in his stomach every morning as he woke up, knowing he’d have to get dressed and drag himself to his office and fuck around with men in suits—and not in the good way—telling them what they wanted to hear and telling others precisely what they didn’t want to hear. That nausea is not unlike what Arthur would feel on bright early mornings before secondary school. It’s the dread of putting yourself out for something that you didn’t even want to be doing in the first place. All the extra effort seemed so pointless.

Thinking about it, Arthur now realizes where most of his apathy comes from. He himself has dealt with this apathy-sprinkled-with-dread for long, dragging days and nights that add up to entire years. It’s not as bad as it used to be, really, but working for his father is still a mighty chore. The difference is that, now, he’s got a few lifesavers that keep him from going under. Enter the muralist, standing tall with a dark mess of hair atop his beautiful head, blue eyes always laughing at a joke that hasn’t yet been delivered. And of course there is his sister, lovely as ever, glowing even before her pregnancy.

_I’m kind of sick of it,_ she says. Arthur frowns deeply at the tablecloth. His insides feel heavy, like he’s been swallowing blocks of lead. Morgana shouldn’t have to feel the way Arthur’s so used to feeling. Her wants her to wake up every morning and beam, happy with all the things that interweave to make up her life—and perhaps she does; Arthur doesn’t know. All he knows is that he never wants her to get the point he was at before he starting going to Guinevere’s, before he fell in love, before she and him were back in each other’s lives.

_I’m kind of sick of it_.

And instantly, an idea sprouts from the loamy soil of his mind. He counts and recounts and ponders but it’s no use, it’s too loud in the restaurant, too loud in his head; he can’t keep it all straight. He stands up and grabs his coat from the back of his chair. It falls through his shaking hands and Arthur has to bend over to pick it up. Thoughts race through his head frenetically and he bites back a smile. No, it’s too early to start grinning just yet. There are too many things to think about, too many details to sort out, too many hoops to jump through. He needs quiet. Arthur takes quick, striding steps through the car park, afraid that if he waits too long, his idea will snuff out like an exhausted ember. He needs quiet, and he knows just where to get it.  


* * *

  
Arthur’s got a key to Merlin’s flat the same way that Merlin’s got one to his house. Arthur wonders about the movies and television shows in which this matter is a sort of big one. They say that this step means that you’re _getting serious._ That’s always the term: _getting serious_. But why, Arthur thinks, would one not be serious beforehand? What is it about the key to the other’s place that finally cements this seriousness?

It is, of course, because with this key of seriousness comes the ability to walk into and wander about the person’s place while they’re not there as if it’s your own. Arthur already knows Merlin does this to his house all the time. Once upon a time this might have been a disturbing thought, but now Arthur finds it comforting. He likes that Merlin feels compelled to be in his house. He likes that he uses the throw pillows (it’s not like anyone else ever does) and puts the forks back in the wrong drawer and leaves the television on but muted when he leaves. The key of seriousness allows Merlin to do all these things that somehow endear him to Arthur even more. 

And yet, Arthur’s only been alone in Merlin’s flat a few times. The first was when Merlin had sent him from the shop to fetch a particular brush he’d mistakenly left behind (he got a free latte for the errand, he remembers merrily). When he’d returned to Guinevere’s, Merlin didn’t ask for his seriousness key back. Arthur forgot about it, as he presumed Merlin did as well, and then found it a week later. It had flipped out of his trousers as he’d folded them. The tiny gold trinket winked at him from the ground and Arthur pocketed it again. When he tried to return it to its rightful owner, Merlin shrugged and told him to keep it. His exact words were, “Thanks, shithead, but I’ve got another. Why don’t you just keep that one?” Arthur’s head had spun. Why doesn’t he, indeed?

And so he did. 

Which is why, months and months later, Arthur finally uses it.

Currently, he’s lying star-shaped in the middle of Merlin’s cloud bed. The owl stares at him from the canvas above the headboard with a singular golden eye. It looks thoroughly unimpressed by Arthur’s visit. Arthur himself is beginning to think the same thing. As it turns out, Merlin’s flat is not a good thinking place. It’s quiet and yet far, far too loud. Arthur can’t concentrate. The whole place unsurprisingly smells like Merlin and Arthur can’t help but breathe it in. He isn’t there but the entire flat positively radiates with his presence. He’s in every hung-up canvas, every floorboard, every tile and every small potted plant that resides on the giant windowsill.

Arthur realizes he’s not going to get any real thinking done and sits up, defeated. Bored by the thought of returning to work, he walks into the kitchen. He runs his fingers over the tile backsplash and, just for fun, misplaces a few of Merlin’s forks in an incorrect drawer, though he doubts Merlin will even notice. On the sizable chalkboard that replaces a cupboard door, one thing is written: _Lunch with A at 1. Hooray!._ It’s dated with Thursday of last week. In Arthur’s stomach, cocoon’s split and out come the butterflies. The grin remains on his face and he makes his way through the main room, the only other one of the flat besides the bathroom. He stops when he gets to the painting wall. He runs his eyes over them all; even though he’s seen them time and time and time again, he can't help but stare in awe. Merlin is a wonderful artist, truly, and Arthur’s proud to know him. But there’s something missing; another canvas. Arthur’s sure it was there, that’s it’s place, he can almost see it in his head. Blue eyes flick from painting to painting, trying to identify the one that’s been discarded.

The lighthouse, Arthur realizes calmly as if he’d known it all along. The lighthouse painting isn’t where it normally is, resting against the wall by the plant on the floor (“It’s a fiddleleaf fig,” Merlin told him matter-of-factly once. “A what?” “A fiddleleaf fig. Honestly, Arthur. And you call yourself cultured.”) A minute later, Arthur’s surprised to find it not discarded, but sitting on the giant wooden easel in the corner of the room. A thin brush sits in cloudy blue water on the shelf next to it, spent. Arthur creeps in closer and analyzes what’s been added.

There are footsteps now, two sets of them, marching through the dark sand. Those steps could be anybody’s, Arthur frets. Until, in the lower left corner he sees a car. His car. It is most unmistakably Arthur’s car, big and black and parked neatly up by the narrow trail. He raises his hand to poke at it fondly but stops when he realizes that, with this luck, he’d probably topple over miraculously and put his hand through the entire thing. Merlin would not be amused by this. Okay, Arthur backtracks, he probably would at first. But for the most part, Not Amused. He takes a step back and circles around the room to the bed again. He’s wrinkled the blanket by laying on it, but considering he had made the bed in the first place, he figures it’s fine. The tiny night tables on either side of the bed are naturally cluttered with all sorts of things: books, half-empty, completely empty, and completely full packs of cigarettes, notepads, a mug, a couple of ashtrays, a tiny, empty plate with a spoon on it. Arthur eyes the treasures, his stare narrowing as he zones in on an open sketchpad. He has to crawl to the other side of the bed to get a closer look and when he does, he lets out a happy sound.

On the white paper is the drawing of a man; a tall man in a very familiar suit with a very familiar face and stature, hair left unshaded as if to suggest it’s light; perhaps blond. In the bottom corner of the page, Arthur’s profile is drawn. If Merlin thinks Arthur looks anything like these drawings, Arthur’s lucky. He nods at the paper in approval. They’re incredible, gorgeous, frighteningly lifelike, even for the simple sketches that they are. His heart swells, imagining Merlin curled up by the headboard with his sketchpad, surrounded by pillows and doodling pictures of Arthur. Arthur’s eyes soften with affection and he lies back on the bed where he started.

His head spins. It’s not only Merlin who permeates this place with his smell and treasures and canvases, even in his absence; it’s Arthur. It’s Arthur with his initial on Merlin’s chalkboard and his footprints in the sand and his face staring up from a piece of paper on the table by Merlin’s bed. Arthur’s favorite words ring happily in his ears.

_I haven’t so much as thought of anyone else since I met you, Arthur._

He exhales slowly. In his pocket, Arthur thumbs meaningfully at the key of seriousness.  


* * *

  
Arthur’s confused at the absence of cars in front of Guinevere’s when he arrives at 6:57. He is quite literally the only person in the car park. He kills the engine and gets out, shoes slapping at the concrete as he walks to the door. Excitement buzzes loudly in his ears.

“Hey!” Merlin calls as Arthur steps inside, “Face the fireplace!”

“Why?”

“I took the tarp down. And I wanna be in charge of the big reveal.”

The amount of willpower it takes Arthur not to spin around and look at the wall is enormous. But he obediently stares down the fireplace and lets Merlin pull him to the center of the room by his elbow. Their shoes scuffle on the clay brick floor and the sound emits through the empty coffee shop. 

“Where is everyone?” Arthur asks.

“I closed the shop. I wanted you to be the first to see it,” Merlin grins and then it falters as he adds, “Well, besides Gwen.”

“Second is the best.”

“That’s the spirit.” Merlin brings his hands up to wring them together in front of his chest. He says, “Shit, Arthur. I’m really nervous. I can’t believe I finally get to show you.”

“I can’t believe I finally get to see it,” Arthur beams. “Are you going to keep in suspense much longer?”

“I’m just stalling. I’m afraid you won’t like it.”

“Myrddin,” Arthur scolds. Merlin flaps his hand. 

“I know, I know. But, I just. I don’t—you know what, I’m just going to show you.”

“Yes!”

“Okay,” Merlin nods, voice wracked with nerves, “Arthur, turn around.”

Arthur does.

The entire wall, once blank, now reflects the inside of the shop itself—if it had been around a couple decades ago, it looks like. Large glass lamps are painted hanging from the ceiling over square wooden tables, much unlike the actual vibrant lights and polished tables of Guinevere’s today. Merlin’s replaced the marble counter with an oak one, and it’s so detailed that Arthur can see the grain as well as some slight splits in the wood. Colors spill thoughtfully over the other objects on the wall; a sofa, the coffee machines (they’re a beautiful bright orange to match the rug on the opposite side of the mural), an analog clock without numbers and a small, framed painting of London’s cityscape.

But the most eye-catching of the things in the mural is a woman who stands at the counter. She is the main attraction of the piece, there is no doubt about it. She dons a polka dot skirt and a plain black sweater, drawing attention more to her lovely face. 

“Holy shit,” Arthur breathes.

It’s his mother. Her lips are painted upward, smiling somewhere beyond the viewer’s eye. Curled, blond hair falls elegantly over her shoulder and her eyes make Arthur’s widen. There is so much in them, even in this mural. Arthur has no idea how Merlin has captured her so _perfectly,_ right down to the dark ocean blue of her irises. She appears gentle and kind and beautiful and everything she ever was and Arthur is breathless. He feels as if she could take a step and walk right out from the wall to stand in front of them, her polka dot skirt swishing around her legs. Arthur can almost hear the fabric. One of his mother’s arms is outstretched and her hand is wrapped around one of Guinevere’s signature paper cups; lidless with whipped cream swirled on top, just the way Arthur likes it.

At his side, it turns out that Merlin has been talking for the last few minutes. Arthur sees his arm in his peripherals, straight out in front of him and pointer finger wagging. The sound of his heartbeat has drowned out everything else so Arthur just raises his own hand to run it slowly down Merlin’s arm. That shuts him up. Arthur slides his fingers over the soft skin at Merlin’s wrist and then splays them. There’s a second of silence in which Merlin understands and uncurls the rest of his fingers. Arthur’s heart beats faster as they take their rightful place between his own. Their locked hands fall back to the space between their hips as they both stare, wordlessly admiring the spectacle that Merlin’s created in front of them. Arthur takes in every inch of the mural with hungry, awe-riddled eyes. He doesn’t want to miss anything. His mother stands at the counter where Merlin’s placed her, looking so calm and satisfied that a grin sneaks its way onto Arthur’s lips from just seeing her.

“How did you—? I mean, she looks—?” 

Arthur can’t find the words. Merlin grins too and uses his free hand to fish his phone out of his pocket. He’s tapping things and then turning it around to face Arthur. The picture of his mother he keeps in the library stares up at him. It’s a bit pixelated, but it’s definitely her. Arthur looks from the screen to Merlin.

“This was my reference picture. I didn’t want to take the actual photo without asking you and I couldn’t ask because I wanted it to be a secret, so,” Merlin shrugs, “thank fuck for modern technology.”

“This is much better than a photo,” Arthur tells him, eyes shining.

“She’s beautiful,” Merlin nods, and they both turn their heads to look again.

Arthur finds it hard to breathe, so full of affection and gratefulness and wonder and love that he feels as if he might burst at the seams. It’s the most he’s felt in a long, long time, and it’s incredible. He feels energized but relaxed, calm but overwhelmed. He thinks about what Uther would say if he saw it. There’s no doubt in Arthur’s mind that Uther would be staring starry-eyed the same way he is. He’ll need to show his father, that much is obvious. And if he didn’t like Merlin, he sure as shit would after seeing what he can do; what he _has_ done, for Arthur. Arthur turns to look at the brunet but he’s not staring at the mural, but rather down at their clasped hands.

“Merlin…”

Something in Arthur’s voice must be off, rough and raw with emotion, he guesses, because Merlin snaps his head up to look at him immediately. Blue eyes stare at blue eyes, one million silent thoughts floating loftily in the air between them. Merlin’s lip trembles.

Arthur finishes, “Thank you.”

Merlin glances down at their hands again before gripping Arthur’s a bit tighter.

“I’m your map, remember?” he asks softly.

“ _Yes_ ,” Arthur insists with vigor.

“And you’re my pieces.”

Arthur can feel contentedness coming off of him in waves. It washes over Merlin, over the clay brick of the shop’s floor. It splashes up against the counter and Arthur can’t stop grinning. He’d be copacetic to hang around here all night. His feet feel like they’re welded to the ground, anyway.

“I’ll never be as good as this one,” Arthur jokes and nods at the wall in front of them.

“It is pretty fucking good, right?” Merlin winks.  


* * *

  
It takes a week for Arthur to find an afternoon that both his father and his very pregnant sister have off. Luckily, it’s getting close to the baby’s due date (and Arthur swears she looks about ready to pop), so there’s not much anyone at Morgana’s work will say if she takes off for a few hours. She’d originally refused to come until Arthur told her _why_ he was beckoning her to the Pendragon Publishing building in the middle of a work day, acting all “psycho-killer secretive” (her words). Eventually, of course, Arthur had worn her down. She’d had to get Helios to drive her and Morgana, always so self-sufficient, was not happy about it. Which is why she’s currently standing next to Arthur in the lift, hands on her hips like a bored teenager. 

“The suspense is killing me,” she insists, jabbing her elbow into Arthur’s side. 

Arthur winces; apparently it’s true what they say about pregnancy strength. He rubs at the sore spot with one hand and pats her back with the other.

“Yes, well. Don’t get too excited. I’m not sure you’ll go for this.”

Arthur straightens his tie and sorts out his jacket until he looks pristine again. His heart hammers away in his chest, his once-vague idea now a clear picture in his head. Okay, so he might be exaggerating slightly. But Arthur really had thought about this until he was dizzy. Possibilities and potential complications continue to twirl around his head like he’d put it on spin cycle. It only worsens as they approach Uther’s office.

“Good lord. It is two o’clock already?” he asks, looking up from a gigantic stack of yellow paper.

Arthur’s taken aback; he looks awful. His eyes are sunken into his pale, slightly wrinkled face and even his tie has been halfway undone, little gray hairs peeping out from the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. Clearly, it wasn’t an afternoon Uther had off, but rather an afternoon that he wasn’t crazily busy. Arthur looks from one bunch of papers to the next as they lie in a semi-circle on the desk around where his father sits. Guilt creeps slowly up his spine and he tries to shake it off. Arthur can’t afford to be shaky during this conversation; his proposition, he supposes. He needs to speak clearly and confidently, like the handsome, well-dressed businessmen on the television show Merlin had made him watch the night before. He had said they’d reminded him of Arthur but Arthur just laughed. He wears the suit right but he doesn’t think he’ll ever be that put-together. But perhaps there is charm in having a few loose screws. He thinks that Merlin would agree with him on that more than anyone.

“Arthur?” Morgana touches his arm.

He launches himself out of his head and back into his father’s office. They’re both staring at him expectantly; even his father, whose eyes don’t usually leave his computer screen or the papers on his desk for more than three seconds at a time. Uther loves the work, and Arthur knows this, but Arthur also knows that there is a limit to that. His father can’t possibly enjoy hours as long as the ones he’s working. Arthur’s idea flutters in his head, ever the anxious butterfly. If what he has to say ever makes its way out of Arthur’s mouth, perhaps Uther won’t have to be working all the time. He could go do…well, whatever his father does in his down time. Attend fancy parties held by relatively important people and shop for shiny shoes before nursing a glass of scotch in a high-back leather chair, if Arthur had to guess. 

“There are a few things I’d like to talk to you about,” he starts.

“Well, spit it out,” Morgana grins.

“An idea. For the company.”

Arthur thinks he should probably be offended at how surprised Uther looks then, but he understands the reaction. After all, this is the most Arthur’s thought about anything involving Pendragon Publishing in a long while. Obviously, his father knows this, and now he scoots to the edge of his chair and furrows his brow as he waits for Arthur to continue. The direct attention makes Arthur sweat.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about this,” he nods, “I’ve gone round and round and over and over this for the past couple weeks and it’s finally time I offer this idea up to you. To both of you.”

Morgana asks, “What have I got to do with the company?”

The corner of Arthur’s lips twitch up in a grin.

“Hopefully everything, if this all works out.”

“Arthur, please,” Uther sounds exasperated, “tell us what you mean.”

Fair enough.

Arthur runs his palm down the length of his tie, a nervous action. He takes a deep breath. 

He begins.  


* * *

  
Words can’t explain how Arthur feels every time he walks into Guinevere’s and sees his mother painted on the wall. He likes that only a small handful of people would even know who she was, the other patrons remaining oblivious—oblivious to her identity, yes, but not to her beauty; the beauty of the mural in its entirety. Each time he’s in the shop, at least one person approaches the counter to tell Gwen what a wonderful addition it is. 

“Done by our very own,” Gwen smiles and waves her hand in Merlin’s direction.

At this, they’d turn to him and start gushing. Arthur knows Merlin loves every second of that, reveling in their praises. He shakes their hands enthusiastically and Arthur thinks that these people are lucky they get to see Merlin’s eyes shine the way they do. He’s even received a few commissions. The combination of Merlin being happy about the income and busy with the work leaves him in the most frenetic of moods. Watching him zip around his flat from sketchpad to sketchpad exhausts even Arthur, who sits stationary on his bed.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t have accepted _all_ the commissions you’ve been offered,” Arthur suggests.

Merlin stops mid-stride to look at him, his favorite black pencil tucked behind his ear.

“Why not?”

Arthur stares. “Isn’t all this stressing you out?”

“Arthur,” Merlin shakes his head, smiling down at the ground. He then takes the pencil from its place and presses the eraser end against his chest, right over his heart. “I _live_ for this shit.”

“I know.”

“I’ve been waiting for this much work for what feels like forever now. Finally, my time has come!”

“I don’t know how you do it.”

“That is because you are left-brained.”

“Huh?”

“Y’know, numbers and shit.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

Merlin heads the rest of the way back over to the sketchpad he was after and starts rotating it in his hands, squinting at it as he talks. Watching him is making Arthur dizzy.

“I read this thing once that says people who are left-brained are better at doing things that involve numbers and logic and critical thinking and stuff. And people who are right-brained—that would be me,”—here, Merlin does a little jig—“are better at music and art and creativity.”

“So all the fun stuff.”

“Basically.”

“Myrddin, are you calling me boring?”

“No,” Merlin grins, “never that.”

“So, together we make one whole brain.”

“Definitely not how that works.”

Arthur sighs, “I _do_ like numbers, though.”

“You sure do. Anyway, I think you’re about the most interesting person I’ve ever met.”

Arthur’s dumbfounded.

“That can’t be true.”

“It can and it is.”

“Elaborate,” he demands giddily.

“Well,” Merlin finally sets the sketchpad down and taps his pencil against his chin as he thinks. “You never eat apples down to the core. You only listen to talk radio unless I’m in the car with you. And while we’re on the subject of cars, you never, ever change lanes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear sweatpants. I don’t think you even own any, or ever will. You hear imaginary ticking noises—”

“Not imaginary!”

“—and you always take your right shoe off first. You stare off into space quite often. At the cinema, you’ve always got to get the very middle seats. Oh! And you don’t like people, although we spend all of our time together.”

“Well, I like _you._ And anyway, hardly any of those things are interesting.”

Merlin taps the pencil against his chin a final time and says, “Maybe not to you,” before turning back to the paper and hunching over to sketch something.

Arthur leans back on the bed and stares at the ceiling, eyebrows pulled together. Half of the things Merlin listed, he didn’t even know about himself. He thinks about how much attention has had to be paid to himself in order for Merlin to know these things and be able to pull them right off the top of his head. He wants to blush, but instead he just feels unabashedly happy. There’s also a slight spiraling in his stomach that feels like relief. 

All these months (shit, has it nearly been a year now?) of cataloguing thing after thing about Merlin and feeling guilty about it—guilty that someone can mean so much to him and take up so much space in his head and yet he has nothing to show for it. Truth be told, Arthur didn’t ever think anyone paid attention to another the way he does to Merlin. He felt greedy, noticing every quirk and slight movement and shimmer in Merlin’s eyes while Merlin only saw Arthur’s surface. But Merlin has taken that thought and thrown it to the wind, never to be recognized again.

It’s not that Merlin is a particularly observant person—he still hasn’t even noticed his missing forks that Arthur purposely misplaced—and yet he’s been able to spot things Arthur does that otherwise would’ve gone unnoticed by anyone and everyone else. There’s something about Arthur. There is something about Arthur that draws Merlin to him, makes him pay attention in a way he never has before. Arthur, though he knows it must be true, feels insecurity nabbing at him behind his eyes and blurring his vision. He blinks and blinks and still it remains, as it has for thirty-two years now. Merlin’s comforter suddenly feels scratchy against his back and he sits up.

“I also know that there is so much more to you than you think there is. You are special,” Merlin insists, eyes still on the paper and pencil still moving. “You are very special to me.”

Arthur wonders how he learned to make such deliberate things sound so casual. He stares and stares at Merlin, eyes definitely blue and glossy, not sure even of what he’d say if Merlin would look back. But he doesn’t, continuing to stroke lead swiftly across the paper in front of him and bite his lip in a concentrated fashion. Arthur doesn’t know what to say. Nothing seems like it would be enough. But Merlin has to know, doesn’t he? He has to. If he can notice which shoe Arthur (apparently always) takes off first, he ought to be able to notice that Arthur is deeply, _deeply_ and so profoundly in love with him in a way that makes his head spin like a pottery wheel and his heart pound louder than all the thunder the skies could muster.

“Hey,” Merlin pipes up, finally looking back at him with a sparkle in his eye that makes Arthur’s thoughts dissipate like fog on a warm summer day. He points the pencil at Arthur again and continues, “You should help me design some of these.”

Arthur puts his hands up and shakes his head, “Oh no, you don’t want that. I’m terrible at art. Always have been.”

“I know,” Merlin laughs, “but I don’t care.”

“I’d ruin your murals.”

“Still don’t care.”

“You wouldn’t get paid.”

“I’d get over it.”

“Trust me, you’re better off doing them on your own.”

“Oh, Arthur,” Merlin mock-sighs, “you’re such a left-brainer.”  


* * *

  
“I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”

“It’s a good thing people don’t stay pregnant forever, huh?”

“Shut up, you cock.”

“Someone’s in a mood.”

“You try strapping a boulder to your abdomen and see how long before you’re calling me a twat. Go on, do it.”

“I’ll pass.”

“I’ll try it,” Merlin chirps, “but I don’t know where I'm going to find a boulder.”

Arthur laughs brightly and Morgana rolls her eyes.

“You two are idiots.”  


* * *

  
Arthur doesn’t really know why he comes into work anymore, especially after he’s proposed his idea to his father. He figures it’s more out of habit than anything. Uther had told him he’d needed time to think about it, and Arthur knows he truly does, so he leaves him be. He tries not to get impatient but he can’t keep himself from tapping his fingernails against the glass of his desk in nervous, frantic patterns. What’s even worse is that Merlin’s been so preoccupied with his commissions that he’s hardly stopping by to distract him. 

On this particular day, though, Merlin’s texted him saying he’s dropping him off a latte later. Arthur couldn’t be more excited for it. The shit coffee from the cafeteria makes him sick to his stomach and if he keeps leaving to get cups from Guinevere’s, what’s the point of him being at the office at all? 

“Sir?” Sharon peeps, only her head sticking through the doorway. “There’s someone here to see you.”

“Great,” Arthur says robotically. He doesn’t look up from the heated game of trivia he’s playing on his phone as he continues, “Send them in, thanks.”

He hears the clicking of his office door being shut once again and then some murmuring on the other side of the wall before he realizes what she’s said. He snaps his head up to look at the wall. Someone? There’s someone here to see him? If it were Merlin, Sharon would’ve sounded more pissed off and if it were Morgana she would have said so. And Mithian would’ve just walked in (and now that he thinks about it, Merlin probably would have too). How many other people see Arthur at work? He thinks for a second but comes up blank. His phone beeps sadly, letting him know that his opponent had won the bonus round and he will not be moving on to the fifth level of trivia.

“Damn you,” he says, glaring at the frowning animated face with the words _YOU LOSE_ below it.

“Something I said?”

Arthur looks up again to see a woman standing by his door, smiling. It’s not a smile that would be described as friendly or polite, but rather lecherous. Arthur is immediately disoriented. A small dress is wrapped around her body, absolutely looking like she’d needed assistance in slipping into it. Arthur keeps his eyes locked with hers in an attempt to keep himself from eyeing her curves—something her outfit and stance are clearly aiming for. A tapping noise resounds as he sets his phone down on his desk. He clears his throat.

“Hello,” Arthur greets, but it sounds more like a question than anything.

She half-turns to close the door behind her. When she looks back at him, she’s got an eyebrow raised. In turn, Arthur furrows his. He then stands, feeling awkward under her gaze. The more he stares, the more he realizes how familiar she looks. He tries to pluck a name from his cluttered brain but comes up empty-handed. He clears his throat again.

“Arthur Pendragon,” she grins, “it’s been a long while.”

Apparently so, Arthur thinks amusedly to himself. 

“I’m sorry, I—”

“My father and I are here renewing our contract with your company,” she tells him and gazes around his office like she’s thinking of moving in. “Usually, I wouldn’t come for a small matter like this, but I figured you’d be here.”

“Well, I am,” Arthur grins back awkwardly.

He really hopes she gets a clue and (re)introduces herself sometimes soon. He doesn’t know how long he can pretend to understand what’s happening here. The woman gives him a look that she obviously thinks he gets, looks behind her at the closed door of his office and then strides the rest of the way across his office and kisses him. 

There’s a chime inside Arthur’s head like when you tap a spoon against the side of a glass andhe remembers; her father, the dress, the face. He vaguely recalls taking her home after one of the last banquets he’d been to for Pendragon Publishing, months and months and months ago. Even before he’d begun frequenting Guinevere’s. The spoon taps again as he realizes that she was the last person he’d been with like that. And he’s been aching for it; _god_ , has he been so, so ready, but this is all wrong. This is not, in any way, shape or form, how he wants to end this dry spell. One person—and one person _only—_ comes to mind. And it is not some rich business owner’s uppity, entitled, model daughter. If Arthur is sure of one thing in his life, it is this.

The kiss is wet and sloppy and fast and Arthur wonders how he was ever, ever okay with it. He feels her breasts pushing against his chest insistently and her hands are on his shoulders, swiping across his back, sliding down his sides. He shoves her off with one palm flat on her chest and gives her a hard look, all of his patience perishing.

“What the fuck?” barks two male voices at once.

The woman (Arthur still can’t place her name, and even now can’t help but feel a little negligent for it) puts a hand over where Arthur had pushed and turns quickly to look at Merlin in the open doorway.

“Hey,” Merlin barks again, “back the fuck off!”

Arthur is at a complete loss of what to say and instead remains where he stands, wide eyes locked onto Merlin’s stormy, narrowed ones as he glares at the woman. Arthur’s arm is still outstretched, palm vertical and fingers splayed out. She looks back at Arthur for a tick before turning back to Merlin and then does it again, mouth opening and closing but no words coming out.

Finally, she stammers, “I’d better—I didn’t—”

“Please leave,” Arthur orders authoritatively and finally lets his hand drop.

The woman turns a deep shade of red and flees from the room, sidling by Merlin who refuses to move out of her way. His glower follows her without fail and Arthur’s never seen him look so angry in his life, even when Arthur dropped one of his four collectible Star Trek glasses. 

“I _dare_ you to try that again,” Merlin’s shouting at her down the crowded hallway, “You fucking—I’ll take your cheap, tacky heel and shove it right up your— _ah!_ Let me go, Pendragon!”

Arthur’s wrapped his arms around Merlin’s middle and drags him into his office, slinging his wriggling body onto the couch before quickly going to the door to close it. It’s laughable how easy it is for Arthur to just toss him around like that, like Merlin’s an unruly pomeranian. It’s far from the worst simile ever. As he stands in the doorway, a gaggle of employees around the copier stare at him, mouths agape. He gives them what he hopes is a charming grin and they quickly look away.

“Sir—?” Sharon starts.

“Everything’s fine!” Arthur assures way too quickly and then finally closes his office door. 

When he spins back around, Merlin’s right there, scowling.

“Let me at her,” he insists, trying to push past. “I swear I’ll—”

Once again, Arthur lifts Merlin and places him heavily on the couch behind his desk. This time, Merlin stays put. He crosses his arms over his chest and huffs out a long breath. Arthur inhales and waits for Merlin to look at him. When he does, Arthur feels suddenly nervous.

“She’s a woman I used to—once, I mean—before I knew you—I guess she—”

Arthur would be fine if an airplane flew right through his office right now and put him out of his misery. Though luckily his misery doesn’t last long, because in one motion, Merlin uncrosses his arms, leaps off the couch and kisses Arthur hard on the mouth. Arthur immediately makes a guttural sound, too overwhelmed to keep his head on straight. Merlin’s humming back and locking his arms around the back of Arthur’s neck to keep him in place. Arthur stays willingly, of _course_ he does, although his knees are close to buckling right under him. Merlin is kissing deeply into his mouth, tongue lapping so gently and sweetly that Arthur thinks this all might be a dream. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d wake up from something like this, strung out and sweating and cocooned in his bedsheets. But the only heat he feels is pulsing from Merlin’s body, lithe and firm and right up against his own. Arthur’s hands immediately push at Merlin’s lower back in an attempt to bring them closer.

“Baby, I—” Merlin quakes.

Whatever he’s saying breaks off into a high-pitched whine as Arthur pushes them together again. His head is spinning, their short, heaving breaths being swallowed by each other’s mouths. Merlin’s arms unwrap from Arthur’s neck and he places trembling hands on either side of Arthur’s face, fingertips prodding tenderly right below his earlobes. His palms lay warm on Arthur’s jaw and he coaxes short kisses from red, shining lips. Arthur complies immediately, Merlin’s expert hands getting every reaction they warrant. He sighs as Merlin slides his palm from Arthur’s face, over his shoulder, slowly—but not too slowly—down his back as they kiss. Another sigh escapes as he cups Arthur’s ass, and Arthur can feel the smile against his own lips. He pushes back against Merlin’s hand, utterly devastated that it leaves even an inch between their abdomens. Merlin amends that by pulling him back in, their slightly new angle leaving both men starry-eyed and barely breathing.

Their only warning is a swift knock on the door before it’s swinging open to reveal Uther, confused expression immediately changing when he gets a good look at what’s currently going on in his son’s office. Arthur thinks he came in saying something but his words died so quickly in his mouth that Arthur couldn’t make them out. He separates himself from Merlin, stepping back a bit, cheeks already burning like they’ll catch fire. Merlin looks at him strangely before he notices Uther too, all limbs freezing. Uther’s mouth falls open wider, and this is when Arthur realizes that Merlin’s hand is still on his ass. He silently grabs it and puts it back at Merlin’s side. 

It’s eerily quiet in the room for a few seconds before Merlin snorts and then giggles, hand coming up to cover his mouth. At this, Arthur can’t help but grin too. He’s too fucking high to care about his father right now. Merlin’s taste lingers in his mouth and the ghost of the warmth in his hands tingles at Arthur’s skin. His heart pounds in his chest, in his head, in his stomach, in his palms, _everywhere_. His entire being pulses, reaching out toward Merlin to continue what should have never been interrupted. His fingers twitch at his sides and he can feel Merlin looking at him.

“I heard commotion,” Uther says slowly. His eyes dart from his son to Merlin a few times before he continues, “Arthur, a word?”

Arthur nods, not trusting himself to open his mouth for fear of something equivalent to ‘get the _FUCK_ out’ spilling from it. Merlin looks at Arthur quickly, eyes amused and mouth in the shape of a tiny ‘o’. Arthur nods at him too and smiles because he can’t help himself. Merlin raises his eyebrows in reply and then turns on his heel, walks to the door and stops.

“Sir,” Merlin says to Uther.

_This ought to be good,_ Arthur thinks giddily, not having it in him to be nervous.

Merlin links his hands behind his back casually and continues, “If it’s any conciliation, your son is one-hundred percent bonerific.”

Uther just stares and Arthur laughs harder than he ever has in his entire life.  


* * *

  
It isn’t until he’s sat back down behind his desk that Arthur realizes Merlin didn’t even bring coffee. His father sits in one of the armchairs, staring blankly at him. Arthur can practically see the spinning wheels in his eyes as he presumably wonders what to say. But the awkwardness is lost on Arthur. No, he’d been waiting for that way too long to feel regret so soon. The situation is less than ideal, of course, but Arthur’s wouldn’t trade it for the world; the desperation and urgency of it all is exactly what he needed, what he expected. His heart continues to vibrate in his chest with such strength that Arthur can hear it in his ears. He’s taken aback when his father finally starts to speak.

“I assume that’s who you’re seeing?”

“It is.”

“I suppose I can put the pieces together now.”

Arthur blinks. “What do you mean?”

“The shouting I heard. Mr. James’s daughter running out of the building as if it were on fire. The…display I walked in on.”

Arthur wishes he could say he contained his snort of laughter right then. Uther watches him for a second before he cracks a slight smile. The sight of it brightens Arthur up considerably.

“She always was fond of you.”

“Yeah, I definitely can’t say the same.”

“I could’ve guessed that.”

“You could’ve?”

“Not your type, is she?”

Another twitch plays at Arthur’s lips. “Not in the slightest.”

Uther puffs out a slight laugh and taps his fingers on his kneecap distractedly. Arthur stares while he watches them as they go up and down, up and down. There is a loud, drawn-out beep from a disgruntled driver on the street far below them. It couldn’t have been heard if not for the silence in the room. Arthur’s mind strays. He lets his tongue run over his bottom lip, a place that he fondly remembers Merlin biting softly. 

“What’s his name?”

“Merlin,” Arthur tells him like it’s the most beautiful word he’s ever heard.

“Strange name,” his father comments harmlessly. Arthur does not remind him of his own name and instead nods, a loose grin on his face that refuses to relent.

Despite the fact he can still feel the pressure from where Merlin’s hands pressed into his back, his sides, his shoulders, questions still stir in his mind like hesitant sharks. They bite at his thoughts and take chunks from his sanity. Arthur can’t help but wonder what this means for them. Is this a new chapter? Or is it merely the part of the book that he’s been waiting for so long? Or, Arthur wonders, is this a completely new book whose cover they’ve just barely flipped open? He doesn’t know what to think, but that doesn’t stop him from thinking about it.

The situation just before the barrier broke is what makes his mind turn in unrelenting circles; petty jealousy can make people do loads of stupid things—this Arthur knows. He recalls many days he’d spent as a child locked in the library, pouting because Uther wouldn’t stop cooing over Morgana. It was only fair given the rationed time she had with him, but Arthur didn’t understand that then. But this time, he wasn’t the jealous one. He can’t help but feel just a little proud of himself for that. Of course, there’s the small matter of him never telling someone he was going to shove their shoe up their ass. But if he walked in on someone kissing Merlin, he just might have. He’s deliriously happy to know that he’ll never find out.

He recalls how unrelentingly angry Merlin was when he’d seen that woman kiss him. Jealousy is such an ugly emotion—Arthur thinks about every time he’d walked into Guinevere’s to see Merlin batting his eyelashes at people because that’s just the way that he is (and don’t think it still doesn’t nab at Arthur when he’s trying to sleep at night)—and yet it bares things that refuse to show when our heads are screwed on one-hundred percent straight. Arthur guesses that people don’t know how much they truly want someone to be theirs until there’s the slightest chance that they could become someone else’s. He gives a quick, contemplative chew to his lip.

“Father,” Arthur says quietly, and Uther looks up. “I’m in love with him.”

Uther’s mouth hangs open and his eyebrows slowly creep up his forehead. Arthur just sits still and keeps his stare, heart beating steadily in his chest. He could’ve called that eyebrow raise from a mile away; Uther knows Arthur likes men and women, but something about the way he talked to Arthur about his future made it seem like he always believed Arthur would end up with a woman. And to be honest, Arthur kind of always believed that too; had never connected with a man as much as he did with women. He’s always been better at dealing with women than men, he supposes it’s partially due to his lack of friends as a boy and his (poignant yet infrequent) times spent with Morgana. He chalks it up to there just being _something_ about Merlin. He’s always thought this and the knowledge still makes his stomach flutter. Arthur knows that after one hundred, one thousand, one _million_ kisses, he’ll still feel the same as he does at this moment.

“It would seem so,” Uther almost laughs. Arthur can’t be happier, and doesn’t try to stop the bright, involuntary laugh that follows his father’s.

“He’s—” Arthur starts, just wanting to say something, _anything_ to follow it up.

His father’s grin lingers and Uther lets them sit in the silence for a while. Through the door, they both can hear the paper shredder start up. Uther clears his throat and smooths his hand back through the thinning hair on the top of his head.

“Morgana’s having a baby, probably getting married soon—I’ll work on that—and my boy. My boy is in love. Arthur, as long as you’re happy. You know that’s all I want,” Uther stands and reaches to rest his hand on his son’s.

“I’m happy. I’m ecstatic,” Arthur insists.

“Then I’m glad too.”

Uther reclaims his seat. Arthur notices smile falters for a second like he’s come to a decision. Unrelated but not unimportant, Arthur realizes his father has just made up his mind on what Arthur had talked to him and his sister about weeks ago. He can see it in the way he stares; proud and elated and yet he spies a glimmer of dejection. A lump forms in Arthur’s throat quickly.

“I do have one question, though,” Uther leans forward, brows furrowed.

“Anything,” Arthur manages.

“What is ‘bonerific’?”

Needless to say, Arthur doesn’t tell him.  


* * *

_  
WE KISSED,_ reads the text that Arthur sends to Morgana when he gets in his car. Immediately, her name pops up on the screen. He waits a few seconds before answering, thumb posed over the green button.

“Arthur? Arthur, are you there? What happened? Oh god!”

“I’m here, yeah—”

“Actually, don’t tell me. I’m coming over. Do you have any pasta or something we can throw in a pot? I’m starved.”

“Absolutely.”

“Yesterday I ate a whole pint of strawberry iced cream. I don’t even like strawberries.”

“I know you don’t.”

“Anyway, I’m coming over. I’m going as fast as I can.”

“Don't crash.”

“Well, now that you said that—” Morgana sneers and hangs up.

Arthur grins. He tosses his phone in the passenger seat.  


* * *

  
When Arthur gets home, Morgana’s leaning against his back door looking very bored and very pregnant. As soon as she spots Arthur’s car, she perks up. Arthur slams his car door behind him and beams as he lets them into the house.

“So…” Morgana prompts.

Arthur looks at her seriously, keychain still dangling from his finger.

“I can’t—I mean, I don’t know what to—”

“It was good,” Morgana nods, showing white teeth.

“Yes,” Arthur breathes, “it was good.”

“It’s finally happened.”

“Morgana, I can’t begin to tell you how I feel.”

“You certainly look like you’re happy. Even your skin looks better.”

“I’ve never felt this way in my life,” Arthur admits, letting out another breath.

Morgana envelops him in a tight hug, her protruding belly pressing against him. Arthur wraps his arms around her neck and she pats his back; short, quick thumps that rival Arthur’s heartbeat. Even with him and his sister standing in the middle of his foyer, the house feels empty without Merlin. If he’s not here, he must be either at his flat or at a commission site. He feels like he misses him more now, like the pull they’ve always felt toward one another has finally been legitimized.

“You know,” Morgana tells him as she pulls back, “Gwen and I were making bets.”

“You should know I’m not surprised in the slightest.”

“That’s where I was, by the way.”

“Was Merlin there?”

“No, or I would have bought him a congratulatory coffee. Weren’t you wondering how I’d gotten here so quickly after I called?”

“Honestly, I didn’t even notice.”

“Understandably.”

“Understandably,” Arthur agrees.

The setting sun casts an orange glow over the living room, courtesy of the sunlight above the couch where Morgana sits. Arthur stands in the kitchen boiling pasta in a pot he hasn’t used for years (he’d had to wipe a hefty layer of dust off of it, but he doesn’t tell his sister this). Arthur doesn’t know if pasta can go bad but he pours in the box he’d found at the back of his cupboard anyway. He figures his sister, off-kilter taste buds and all, won’t be able to tell the difference. The water boils over twice as Arthur gets lost in his thoughts, staring blankly at the counter on the opposite side of the kitchen.

“Has Uther thought any more about your proposition?” Morgana asks later through a forkful of cheese and noodle.

Arthur nods, “I think so. But he hasn’t officially said anything.”

“Soon?”

“I’d bet.”

Morgana reaches across the table to grab his shoulder, grinning.

“Hey,” she says, eyes twinkling, “I’m really proud of you.”

Arthur doesn’t think he deserves it, but he almost tears up anyway.  


* * *

  
Arthur’s tossed and turned through one hour of false sleep when his phone lights up. Merlin’s text reads: _finally starting to regret taking on all these commissions :( just wanna be with you, shithead._ Arthur wishes it were a post-it note so he could slide it into his nightstand drawer with the others. Attached is a picture of a fairly large canvas that Arthur supposes is Merlin’s first draft before transferring it to a wall (or in one odd case, a ceiling). Arthur admires it as much as his pixelated cell phone screen lets him before sending back: _Want to be with you always, myrddin._ Never in his life has he been in the business of sharing feelings through texts, but Merlin is an exception if Arthur’s ever known one. He falls asleep a minute later, covers thrown to the side and mobile still in his hand.  


* * *

  
In the last twenty-four hours, nothing and everything has changed. What’s new is the way Merlin and Arthur’s hands lay clasped on Merlin’s knee underneath the table. Gwen practically dropped the coffee she was making when she saw, and Morgana just gave her the proudest look like she’d gotten them together herself. She’d come over and gushed for a bit before another influx of patrons on their lunch breaks dragged her back behind the counter. Arthur can feel her occasionally look over at them still, brown eyes shimmering with happiness. He certainly knows the way it looks by now. Merlin’s hand is warm in his, and Arthur’s afraid that if he lets go he might up and float away. When Merlin laughs, he leans into Arthur’s side and Arthur can smell cigarettes and something minty. Merlin’s presence wraps around him like a thin down blanket and Merlin has to wave his free hand in front of his face to snap him out of it.

“You look loony when you do that.”

“When I do what?”

“Stare off into space like that. I told you that you did it all the time. I should really start making a tally. And every ten I mark down, you buy me a coffee.”

“I already buy your coffee.”

“You sure do,” Merlin nods seriously. “And don’t you forget it.”

“How come you don’t do that for me?” Morgana half-jokes, looking up from her crossword puzzle.

“What?”

“Get my coffee.”

“Maybe he’s got one of those secret, deep-seated sibling hatreds for you for no particular reason like they do all the time on soap operas.”

“You watch soap operas?” Morgana interrupts, voice laced with amusement.

Merlin continues, “One time I saw one where this woman took her sister’s little baby and left it in the middle of a shopping mall. And another time, the girl’s brother tried to stuff her baby down the loo. It was some real crazy shit.”

“That’s a lot of good ideas,” Arthur says.

Merlin nods, “Much better than the ones we came up with for little Spock.”

“Please stop calling my unborn baby Spock.”

“He just told you we were going to flush your baby down the toilet and that’s all you have to say?”

“Flush _Spock_ down the toilet—”

“I’m glad you two have each other, because it’s a wonder how anyone else puts up with you,” Morgana tells them. She pens in nine across and then adds, “Truthfully, we haven’t even been thinking of names. Oh god, I’m a horrible mother already.”

“Well,” Arthur says, “can you think of any right now?”

Morgana squints for a second before answering, “I like Dana.”

“That’s a nice name.”

“Yes,” Merlin agrees.

“Lucy. David, Emily, Hannah, Nathaniel,” Morgana lists.

“Those are all nice.”

“Uther.”

Merlin furrows his brow. “Arthur’s middle name?”

“Er, I was thinking maybe something a little more normal,” Arthur suggests.

Morgana rolls her eyes, “No, I mean _look_. Uther.”

They both follow her stare, turning in their seats to look towards the entrance of the shop. Sure enough, the grey-haired man has just come through the door. Due to their stares, he sees them immediately and makes a beeline to the table like he’s on a mission.

“Father?” Arthur asks, bewildered.

“Arthur, Morgana, Merlin,” he greets, nodding.

“Hi!” Merlin chirps.

“What on earth are you doing here?”

“Ms. Green told me where I could most likely find you,” Uther answers his son. “So this is where you sneak off to all the time.”

“I wouldn’t say _all_ the time.”

“I would,” Morgana snorts.

Merlin snickers, “So would I.”

Arthur glares at them both and stands, resting a hand on Uther’s shoulder, but Uther’s not looking at him anymore; his head is on a swivel, checking the place out. He nods appreciatively at the huge marble counter and general decor until his face falls in the most strange way. Arthur furrows his brow and steps around his father to see what he’s looking at.

It’s the mural.

Without a word, Uther walks to it like his feet are made of lead. Arthur hand slides off his shoulder and at his side, he clenches and unclenches it, inexplicably nervous. He feels Merlin’s fingers slip into a belt loop of his slacks and when he looks down at him, Merlin’s glowing. He throws a look at Morgana before getting up and walking to stand next to Uther, pulling Arthur along with him.

“Your mother,” is what Uther says, quiet like a whisper.

“Your wife,” Arthur smiles warmly. Uther finally rips his eyes off of her to look at him.

“Arthur, you—?”

Arthur puffs out a laugh. “No, no. Merlin.”

The muralist grins when Uther spins around to gape at him. He looks from the wall to Merlin and then the wall again, and the next time their eyes lock, Uther’s are glossy in a way Arthur’s never seen them. Arthur glances back to Morgana to see she’s already watching them, crossword puzzle forgotten on the table. Gwen watches too from near the till, head cocked and smile slowly growing on her lips. The patrons of the shop carry on with their lives, unaware of the gravity of now.

“You painted this?”

“I did,” Merlin grins, “I figured Arthur deserved something more than a fading picture.”

There’s a ghost of a smile on Uther’s lips, twitching at the corners like he can’t contain it.

“You did this,” he asks, “for Arthur?”

“Sir, there isn’t one fucking thing I wouldn’t do for him.”

At that, Uther’s facade finally cracks and a smile spreads on his face, wide and unabashed. Arthur could have guessed a lot of things Uther would have done at this moment, but what happens is not one of them. Uther turns his smile to his son for a moment before enveloping Merlin in a tight hug. Arthur swears he even sees them sway a little. Merlin lets out one short, bright laugh and hugs back even tighter. Arthur steps in to wrap an arm around each of them before he even realizes he’s doing it, so happy and relieved that he can’t help himself. Merlin laughs again when Morgana appears at his side, one arm around him and the other around her father. And just when Arthur thought the group hug couldn’t get any bigger, he hears an “oh!” from behind the counter and then Gwen is there too, squishing herself between him and Merlin.

Everyone else detaches when Uther does, and Arthur surprised to see that his smile is just as wide and genuine as it was before. He gives Merlin shoulder a few pats but doesn’t say anything else, and it’s okay, because Arthur knows that Merlin’s aware of how much it means to him; to them all. Uther goes down the row, giving each of them a rare, fond look. When he looks to Guinevere, his brow furrows.

“And you would be, love?”

“Guinevere,” she answers, hands smoothing at her dress before enthusiastically shaking Uther’s.

“You own this place?”

“I do, sir,” Gwen tells him proudly.

“Well, keep up the good work. I have a feeling I’m going to be seeing a lot of this place in the future.”

Arthur doesn’t miss the awed look his father gives the mural before Gwen speaks again.

“I’d love that.”

“And I hate to leave so soon, but there is something of urgency that I need to talk to my son and daughter about. Can you two come back to the office with me?”

Arthur’s breathing nearly stops.

“Yes, of course,” he answers for the both of them.

“Great,” Uther says and begins to walk out, but stops with his palm pressed to the glass face of the door. “And Merlin…thank you.”

Merlin beams, eyes twinkling and watery. Arthur places a soft kiss on his cheek before grabbing up his belongings and hurrying out after his father, Morgana waddling behind him.  


* * *

  
The walk from the car park to Uther’s office feels like miles. Which each step he takes, he thinks up another reason why his father could have rejected his plan. They’re ridiculous, of course, with Arthur’s overactive brain getting the best of him. He silently panics as they exit the lift on his floor.

“Aren’t you nervous?” he asks his sister.

She shrugs as they walk. “No.”

“This is really important to me,” Arthur says, almost offended.

“Arthur. You know what he’s going to say.”

Arthur remains silent and looks at her expectantly. When she doesn’t continue, he blurts, “What?!”

“Well,” Morgana smirks as she pushes the door to Uther’s office open, “I guess you’ll find out.”

“I hate you. Don’t ever think I liked you, because I hate you. You are my least favorite.”

“I love you too, baby brother.”  


* * *

  
“We’re gonna do it?”

“Yes.”

“My idea, I mean. We’re going to execute it?”

“…Yes, Arthur.”

“Are you pranking me right now?”

“Son, you know very well that I do not pull pranks.”

“We’re _actually_ going to do it?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Uther repeats, exasperated now.

“All of it?”

“Morgana will step in to take your job, as per your—and her—request. Is there more that I’m neglecting to cover?”

“No,” Arthur shakes his head, “no, no.”

“It’s settled then. And I appreciate your patience with my decision-making.”

“Yes. Oh my god, yes! This is—Morgana, father, I—”

Too many words want to spill from Arthur’s mouth that he just shuts it completely. He leaps up and pulls Morgana into a hug, trying (and probably failing) to be gentle.

“Morgana, thank you. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

“It’s my pleasure. You know that. I couldn’t imagine my mother being a police officer,” Morgana tells them, “It would have scared the hell out of me.”

“A wise decision,” Uther grins.

Arthur can almost feel the better part of a decade wash off of him. He looks at his father and realizes that he’ll never have to work for him again, never have to go to another meeting, never have to force a smile as he sits at his desk or hunch over redundant paperwork until midnight. Arthur grins like a lunatic but it’s only there a second before it’s faltering. The blissful buzzing in his head stops and he sits back down.

“Father…” he trails off. Arthur feels green eyes flickering between he and his father.

“I’ve got to make a call,” Morgana lies, “I’ll just step outside for a bit.”

Arthur tries again when the door clicks closed.

“Father, I don’t want there to be any hard feelings. But my time at this company has just…run out,” Arthur lifts one shoulder in a shrug, “I’ve got nothing left to give it. My priorities have changed, and Morgana is honestly the best fit for the job now.”

“I understand. I’ve walked in on you asleep in your office enough times to know that this isn’t somewhere you want to be anymore,” Uther grins, and relief runs calmly through Arthur’s bones. “You know I take no offense.”

Arthur nods, smiling so hard he feels his face will break.

“I’m so proud of you both.”

Joy glows warm in Arthur’s chest, but it doesn’t repel his constant insecurity.

“Even of me?” he asks, sounding infantile even to his own ears. “But w—”

“Arthur,” Uther says, almost scoldingly. “I’ve told you I only want you to be happy. And it looks like you are without this job. I can’t remember the last time I saw you smile like that.”

“Everything is falling into place,” Arthur says wistfully, more to himself than Uther.

“There is one thing, though.”

“What?”

“It’s just…what are you going to do now, son?”

“I haven’t got the faintest idea,” Arthur grins toothily. “Isn’t it wonderful?”  


* * *

  
Cleaning out his office can wait, telling Mithian can wait, _everything_ can wait—Arthur needs to get to Merlin. He calls his mobile seven times but Merlin doesn’t answer, so Arthur heads back to Guinevere’s thinking he’d still be there. As he drives, the sky splits like a weak seam and rain pelts the windshield mercilessly. Arthur wants to laugh at the irony, because he feels as lit up at the sun itself. Traffic worsens due to the weather and he taps his fingers against the steering wheel anxiously before finally making his turn into the right car park. He flies out of his car and barrels through the door of the shop. Rain drips down his forehead and into his eyes. He rubs them with his fingertips and peers around.

“Back so soon?” Gwen asks, standing near the sink and drying a blender with a dishrag.

“Did Myrddin leave?”

“Yeah. Soon after you and Morgana did.”

Arthur drips all over her floor as he stands in the doorway of the shop and thinks that this is just his luck. He shakes himself a little because water has slipped beneath his collar and now tickles as it runs down his back. Guinevere tosses the dishrag into the sink and turns her body, eyeing him oddly.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m perfect,” Arthur insists quickly, “but do you know where Myrddin went?”

“He said he was going to go work on some drafts for his commissions. So he’s most likely back at his place now. Are you sure you’re alright? You look like you’re about to combust.”

Arthur flashes her a smile. “I just might. Thanks Guinevere!” he shouts as he slips back out into the storm.

He’s sure she says something more but all he can hear is the rain and his shoes slapping heavily on the wet, flooding pavement. His heart still leaps in his chest; the detour hasn’t slowed him down or dampened his spirits in the slightest. After all, how could it? He still feels jailbroken, like he had been imprisoned in his job for so long that the bars around him had started to feel like home. An empty, boring home where no one is running up his electricity bill by insisting he _likes it better_ when all the lights are on or leaving the cap off of the toothpaste so it dries up. Arthur only realizes he’s smiling fondly when he catches a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror. He’s nearing Merlin’s flat but the road in between them seems to stretch without end; ad infinitum. The rain has refused to let up and his wipers slap the water away almost fruitlessly. Still feeling tiny drops slide down his back, Arthur slaps at his suit, hoping the fabric will lap it up. 

He could sing when he finally parks in front of Merlin’s complex and leaps from his car. Immediately, rain covers him and plasters his bangs to his forehead, but Arthur couldn’t care less about it. Once inside, he heads for the stairs, not wanting to fuss with the slow elevator. Wet and breathing heavily, he undoes the top buttons of his shirt and pulls at his tie to loosen it. He feels better and more awake with every step he takes.

By the time he’s reached Merlin’s door, his heart is beating so fast that Arthur’s afraid it might stop altogether. Uncharacteristically, he doesn’t knock in favor of twisting the knob and stepping in. He’s met with the familiar smell of smoke and paint.

Merlin sits cross-legged in the middle of the floor, cigarette dangling daintily from his lips. Smoke curls up from it gently. His eyes are fixed on the large canvas laid out in front of him. The wet paint glistens in the artificial light and when Arthur closes the door behind him, Merlin looks up.

“Ha!” he laughs. “It looks like somebody’s tried to drown you!”

Nothing registers to Arthur except the beat of his heart, and when he doesn’t respond, Merlin sets down the paintbrush he’s holding. There’s a question on his lips, but it doesn’t make it out.

“I quit,” Arthur says.

“What?”

“I quit. My job.”

The tiny question marks in Merlin’s eyes change to exclamation points and in one motion, he’s smashing out his cigarette and is up and running.

“No, no, no, you’ll get wet—”

“You think I give a fuck about that?” Merlin shouts into Arthur’s shoulder as he slams their bodies together in a hug.

“No,” Arthur smiles warmly and pulls back to look at him. “I don’t think you do.”

“You’re finally out! You just—you’ve—I can’t—I’m so—”

Arthur can safely say that this is the first time he’s seen Merlin at a loss for words. But when he finally does find them, Arthur feels his entire being shut down.

“Arthur—I _love_ you.”

Arthur’s afraid his ears have betrayed him.

“ _What?”_

“I told you that I loved you. I love you,” Merlin repeats.

Arthur can feel his fingertips pressing into his shoulders. Bright blue swims around Merlin’s pupils, distracted and yet focused all the same. A drop of rain falls from Arthur’s bangs to the bridge of his nose and Merlin’s gaze follows it for a quick second before looking back into Arthur’s wide eyes. All at once, the blanking hiccup Arthur had felt is gone and his heart swells bigger than he’s ever felt it before, radiating love so strongly that he’s sure Merlin can feel it despite the slight space between their chests.

But that space is gone in an instant because Arthur’s stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Merlin’s middle, kissing him for the first time since it happened in his office. Merlin makes a joyous sound and thought it’s muffled by Arthur’s lips, he’s sure he’d know what it sounded like had they been detached. It rings happily through Arthur’s ribcage and shoots down his legs. Merlin brings a hand up to push Arthur’s wet bangs off of his forehead and ends up carding his hand back through Arthur’s hair softly. In turn, Arthur cups Merlin’s face and holds it gently as he kisses into his mouth, their tongues finding one another quickly. Merlin steps a bare foot in between Arthur’s and presses them together from chest to hips. The sudden heat feels like it could light Arthur into flames, as if he’d been doused with gasoline rather than rainwater. There’s a quiet smack of lips as Arthur breaks their kiss to sigh into the space by Merlin’s cheek.

“Myrddin.” 

Merlin hums and presses their hips closer.

“I’ve felt this way for nearly a year, and yet still you beat me to the punch,” Arthur breathes.

Merlin beams and Arthur can feel the dimples he adores so much at the corner of his lips. He turns his head slightly to place a soft, deliberate kiss on the smooth skin of Merlin’s cheek.

“I’m so fucking in love with you, Merlin.”

Merlin’s beam grows wider and quietly, he says, “You called me Merlin.”

“I love you,” Arthur whispers again, because he can.

He pulls back just a bit further and presses their foreheads together. Merlin’s hands move from his shoulders so his fingertips can press gently behind Arthur’s ears, palms cradling his jaw. Arthur feels their hearts beat in unison, the dull thumps making him lose his breath all over again. A tiny thought begins to grow at the back of his rushing mind and it makes his mouth twitch.

“Are you sure we can—I don’t want you to feel…” Arthur trails off.

Merlin shrugs, “It’s you.”

It’s said so casually and yet the depth of the statement is known to them both. _It’s you; you that has been by my side through the fast and slow times, the good days and the horrible nights, when all I could picture was a face I’m starting to forget because yours is all that comes to mind. It’s you that has waited for me, pacing the floor with anxiety but sitting next to me when I asked it of you. It’s you that is my pieces, and it is I that is your map. It’s you, Arthur, whose compassion has acted as a lifeline when I was at the bottom of the darkest hole that I dug myself into. It’s you that I love. It’s you, you, you._

“I want you, now.”

The relief he feels draws a laugh out of Arthur, “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that from your perfect mouth.”

Merlin grins, cat-like.

“The wait is over.”

That’s all it takes for Arthur to step forward and capture Merlin’s lips again, automatically humming into his mouth from pure bliss. Merlin wraps his arms around Arthur’s neck and hoists himself up to wrap long legs around Arthur’s waist. Really, Merlin’s enthusiasm shouldn’t come as a surprise to him, but Arthur can’t help but moan against the younger man’s lips and press their bodies closer together with a hand at the small of Merlin’s back.

Arthur’s already hard and judging by the way Merlin’s sort of bouncing himself against Arthur’s lower abdomen, he can feel it. Merlin’s wicked grin remains and the look in his eye makes Arthur’s cock twitch. In turn, Merlin’s eyes go soft and wander over Arthur’s shoulder like it’s too much energy to focus them. And then in a second he’s mouthing at Arthur’s neck, whispering his name into his skin like a prayer. Arthur’s feet fail him for a second and he ends up stumbling backward until his back is against Merlin’s front door, a loud thud resounding in the room with the force of it. Merlin puffs a hot breath of laughter over the slick spit on Arthur’s neck and Arthur sighs, leaning his head back to give Merlin more area to cover. He obliges willingly and swaps his hand placement from Arthur’s chest to splay them on the door on each side of Arthur’s head. Arthur has barely any time to marvel at Merlin’s lower body strength before he realizes his hands haven’t moved from Merlin’s back. He quickly amends that and slides them down to grip Merlin’s ass, warm and flexing through his jeans as he keeps up the half-thrusts. It’s almost too much for Arthur to bear already, his wet suit making him hotter than he already is. 

“God, baby, you—” Merlin pauses to kiss Arthur once, slowly before pulling back to continue, “You’re so motherfucking hot, just letting me use my mouth on you. Holding me up, letting me rut against you like I—but oh god, I knew it would be good—I, I _knew_ it, I mean, look at you— _Arthur_ , fucking look at you.”

Every single word goes straight to Arthur’s cock and Merlin moans when Arthur’s hips snap involuntarily forward and up, right against his ass. The sound of it suddenly takes Arthur back to the morning after he’d gone to that godforsaken nightclub with the others. He recalls the heat their bodies created, even laying near-stationary like they were, and his fingertips leaving white ovals on the already pale skin of Merlin’s hip as he came. He remembers feeling scared and ashamed of himself, but there’s no time to linger on that now, not when Merlin’s in his arms. Even a memory like that, as delicious and delicate as it is, is nothing like what Arthur’s feeling in this moment.

His body is buzzing as if every vein has become a live-wire. His head swims and his brain tries to tread water because Arthur wants to remember every second, every sound, every touch. He’s waited too long to let this moment pass him by in a hot, sticky blur. His squeaky-clean conscious does wonders for his sanity, as well; there will be no shame, no backtracking this time. As if on cue, Merlin gives his neck a gentle bite and a strangled grunt escapes Arthur’s throat.

It lights a fire in him and his hands come up to grab Merlin’s face and crash their lips together, Arthur wasting no time in exploring every inch of his mouth. He already can’t wait for the bruise on his neck to form so he can finger it and think of this moment. Merlin’s responding just like Arthur knew he would and Arthur’s so hyped up he could scream.

“Too many goddamn clothes,” he decides.

“I’ve always thought that,” Merlin manages to breathe.

Arthur does them both a favor and, still attached at the lips, walks them to Merlin’s bed. He knows the layout of the flat enough to not bump into anything and when the front of his knees hit the edge of the mattress, Merlin unlocks his legs from Arthur’s waist. Arthur’s arm comes up to safely guide his light body onto the bed and once he’s down, he rips his suit off. Merlin’s hands are undoing his belt while he tries to quickly unbutton his dress shirt. He grins at Merlin who’s big blue eyes are staring up at him, twinkling playfully. He undoes five or six buttons before deciding it’s taking way too fucking long and finally just pulls the shirt over his head and slings it onto the floor behind him. The cool of the room feels nice on his damp, bare skin, but not nearly as nice as Merlin’s calloused palms rubbing over his stomach. He wants to whine when Merlin removes them to tear at his own clothing.

“Wait, Merlin. Let me,” Arthur insists.

Merlin closes his eyes and nods, a wide, lazy smile on his lips. Arthur kisses that smile before pulling off Merlin’s paint-stained shirt. His eyes graze hungrily over his thin, toned body, finally able and trembling to be touched. Arthur makes himself wait until (after fumbling clumsily with Merlin’s belt and Merlin sniggering at him) he pulls his jeans and boxers completely off too. The clothing pools in a little pile next to Arthur’s feet but Arthur can’t take his eyes off of Merlin, lying naked and hard on his bed, skin looking even paler against the deep red of his comforter.

Arthur has imagined this hundreds of times, but none of those fantasies come close to the real thing.

Merlin takes in the way Arthur’s eyeing him and gives a little moan. Arthur immediately falls to kneel at the edge of the bed, placing his palms under Merlin’s narrow thighs. Merlin gives an affirmative sigh of his name and Arthur pulls him further down the bed so he’s faced with Merlin’s cock, leaking against his stomach. Arthur needs it like he’s never needed anything else in his life. The sound Merlin makes when Arthur wraps his hand around the base makes his vision blur.

“Always wanted you like this,” he tells Merlin and wraps his lips around the pink head.

Merlin’s high-pitched whine erupts in the room and Arthur would give anything to hear it again. He keeps his eyes on Merlin as he goes down, soothingly rubbing his tongue over the veins on the thick underside. He pulls off with an indecent sound and mouths along each side of Merlin’s cock until his mouth feels too empty without it there. Merlin’s hands are in his hair and pulling when he takes him down again. Half-thoughts spill from his open mouth.

“Arthur, I—You’re everything I—Like that, oh, like _that.”_

Arthur hums in reply and Merlin’s hands scrabble at his hair again. When Merlin’s hips thrust slightly off the mattress to meet him, Arthur doesn’t try to pin them down. He lets Merlin fuck his mouth and loves the slight taste of his cum on the back of his tongue. He swallows as Merlin’s hips snap up again and that starts Merlin babbling, repeating Arthur’s name again and again like Arthur’s always wanted, always dreamed of. When Merlin comes with a loud, drawn-out moan, Arthur swallows the load without hesitating. 

“Need you,” Merlin whines and swats at Arthur’s shoulder.

“My love,” Arthur replies.

There’s a second where he fumbles to step out of his slacks and then he’s on the bed, too. He immediately straddles Merlin, being careful as not to touch his sensitive cock. Merlin pulls Arthur down on him with a hand on the back of his neck and then they’re kissing again, fast for a bit and then slow again. Eventually, Merlin returns to the same spot on Arthur’s neck he’d been working on earlier, except this time he complements the action with a hand sliding down Arthur’s bare chest. Quick fingers spider over his skin, making Arthur shiver and bury his head in Merlin’s collarbone. Arthur can feel his grin against his own temple. As soon as Merlin’s hand slips under the waistband of Arthur’s briefs, anxious hips buck up to meet it involuntary.

“Oh, baby,” Merlin moans quietly, right in Arthur’s ear.

His fingers wrap delicately around Arthur's cock and he begins stroking slowly, and Arthur knows he’s trying to make it last. But Arthur doesn’t care; whether it’s one minute or ten, it’s still with _Merlin_ , and that’s all that matters to him. He whispers the muralist’s name into the skin of his neck and Merlin answers with a stuttered, “I know, baby.” He brings his other palm to his mouth and gives it a slow lick with a wide tongue before switching hands. Arthur repeatedly groans; deep, guttural sounds that Merlin swallows down with heated kisses. He bites Merlin’s protruding collarbone as he spills all over his hand, a love mark in return for the one Merlin has left him.

“Fucking _incredible_ ,” Merlin breathes.

“I’ve thought about that so many times,” Arthur pants, “but it’s never been like that.”

“You’re so fucking hot. I mean, I always knew that, but still. Jesus _fuck_.”

Arthur laughs, the loudest sound in the room beyond their breathing in the last minute. He sits up and pulls Merlin with him, crowding him into his side like he’s trying to shelter him. They start to breath in unison, eyes locked onto one another’s and not ever wanting to look away. The storm Arthur had seen in Merlin’s irises for so many months has finally subsided. All that remains now is _love_ , bright and blue and shining and brilliant. Another moment and they’re both grinning, no; _beaming_ at each other like they’ve struck gold.

And really, hadn’t they?  


* * *

  
“Morgana offered me a job.”

“What?” Arthur asks, affronted.

Surrounding his feet are several moderately-sized cardboard boxes, only one of which actually has things inside. He’s cleared his desktop, emptied his drawers and still his items aren’t even close to filling a single box. The air in his office feels strange; empty and stale like it’s been vacant for years. Arthur wouldn’t be surprised to find cobwebs in the top corners of the walls. He’s already rifled through his box twice; some manila file folders, a box of staples (but no stapler—Arthur wonders how he pulled that one off), several stacks of mostly unimportant papers and some random post-it notes from a while back, courtesy of Merlin. It feels odd to Arthur for him to be standing there in his office that isn’t really his anymore, but his sister’s. Memories spin around in his head like a bad black and white movie. He remembers his father first leading him into it, hiding from flirty co-workers behind his desk during office parties, standing by the giant windows and watching the city carry on far below. He sincerely hopes Morgana will have better times in this place than he has—and she will.

“She asked me to be her secretary. Can you picture that?” Merlin snorts.

There’s a split second of fear and worry, and the thought that this place might darken Merlin’s life the way it did Arthur’s. He knows it’s not the same, and it’s _not_ , but the feeling sits heavy in his stomach anyway. Merlin crosses the room and peers into all the empty boxes, frowning.

“She’s not keeping Sharon?” Arthur asks.

“No. Morgana said that she rubs her the wrong way.”

“She’s always done the same to me.”

“I really hope you’re speaking figuratively.”

“Ha-ha.”

Merlin smiles and grabs Arthur hand without actually holding it; just running his fingers up and down and between Arthur’s, swiping his thumb across his palm slowly. Every touch still sends jolts of exhilaration up Arthur’s spine and there is a moment where his brain jumps like a scratched CD and he can’t believe this all is happening. The day where he finally called it quits at his father’s company was one he always knew would be rapturous, but this blows any other possibility out of the water; a beautiful man at his side, an accepting father ready to let him go, and a loving sister waiting in the wings to step in and keep things running smoothly. 

“I told her no, of course,” Merlin says of the position Morgana had offered him. “I mean, sure, it’s a steady income, but.”

“But what?”

Merlin shrugs adorably and says, “My heart still belongs to art.”

“And me.”

“And you.”

Merlin pulls Arthur to him by his tie and they share a kiss, soft and sweet and yet still making two pairs of knees go weak. When they break apart, Arthur sees the small couch in the corner of his eye. He remembers sitting there when Merlin had first put the wall up, closing Arthur out from this part of himself until he was whole again. Debris had kept scattering over time, Arthur pounding at it and watching it crumble from the outside. It now lies in pieces around their feet, shattered and messy on the navy blue carpet of an office that no longer belongs to Arthur Pendragon. He tastes Merlin Myrddin on his lips, feels his skin on his hands and buzzes with the thought that he gets to feel like this all the time.

It wasn’t to leave his job that Arthur needed, not really; it was change. And his change happened to come with glittering blue eyes, a penchant for nicotine and multicolored streaks of paint over pale skin that seemingly never wash off. But not only does Merlin bring life to blank canvases, swirling greens and yellows in a way that his counterpart will never understand.

But he brings color to Arthur’s life; golds and bright blues with dashes of passionate reds. Arthur realizes that he was never empty, not really.

He was just a blank canvas, waiting for his artist.

 


End file.
